


Dreams Answered (A Fluffy Drabble Collection)

by RadientWings



Series: Of Moments Unseen (Short Story Collection) [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, The Inner Circle - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, all happiness all the time, feysand: cockblockers supreme, ok there is a little angst every now and then but then all fluff again!!, seriously guys I cannot stress how much fluff is in this, the inner circle: found family of the decade, with a tiny bit of introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-06 00:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadientWings/pseuds/RadientWings
Summary: After reigning victorious in the war against Hybern, the Inner Circle finally have some time for themselves. Their lives no longer revolve around magic and surviving the next battle; instead, they revolve around each other and their burgeoning relationships. Hijinks, shenanigans, and an overload of fluff ensue.(Post ACOWAR drabble collection full of Elriel, Feysand and Nessian goodness.)





	1. In Darkness (Elriel)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I just finished ACOWAR last week and I couldn't help but fall in love with the characters all over again - so I decided to write various little moments in the futures I could envision for them. This collection will be mostly elriel, nessian, and feysand. Also, feel free to leave a prompt! I love getting new ideas, hehe ;)
> 
> This particular drabble is pure elriel; the idea came from throne-of-omg-the-feels on tumblr and was posted there too ;) Includes: cuddling and other cuteness.

Azriel had always had trouble sleeping, especially in the pitch black of the night. It surprised most people, that a shadowsinger like him should have so much trouble in the dark. But the dark… the dark reminded him too much of the cage of his childhood. It reminded of cold rags on the floor, of constant, gnawing hunger and the agony of freshly burned hands.

Even five centuries of freedom hadn’t completely purged him of that little spark of irrational fear, that fear of the dark. It was for this reason he always kept his curtains open the tiniest bit, so that the gentle light of the stars filtered through. Enough of a reminder that he didn’t destroy his bedroom every time he ripped himself out of a nightmare. (For Azriel could walk in darkness and shadow, could dance in it, could listen to its song… but sleep, sleep was another type of vulnerability entirely. Sleep was dangerous.)

Still, even this small precaution wasn’t enough for Azriel to let his guard down and let someone sleep next to him. Oh, he’d had lovers over the centuries - sometimes even ones that stayed for longer than one night. But he’d never laid _beside_ them. (For so long he’d hoped, _dreamed_ , that one day Mor might be the first by his side - glorious, _free_ Mor. But she’d since told him that this dream was impossible… and so he had let it go, in little bits until the last vestiges of it had faded into a beloved memory.)

And then there was Elain. Unexpected and utterly beautiful in every way. She came into his life, into his heart, slowly until one day it _hit_ him, what this feeling that had grown inside his chest was. And she was like him. _Different_. Different in a way the others couldn’t understand. The seer and the shadowsinger. What a pair they would make. And by the Cauldron, he’d _longed_ to be a part of that pair, a half of a whole… to be something to Elain Archeron that he never been to anyone else before. He longed for her body lying next to him in the cursed dark, quiet and at peace. But he didn’t deserve that kind of happiness, that kind of companionship. Certainly not from someone as wholly good as Elain.

So he hadn’t dared hope that she might pick him, not after Mor and not when she already had Lucien Vanserra for a mate.

And yet she _had_. She’d picked him over her Cauldren-chosen _mate_.

And Azriel, damn him, couldn’t refuse her. Not when she looked at him like he _mattered_.

The second their lips met for the first time, the shadows retreated from him completely for the first time in centuries. They stayed away all night, when he learned her body so thoroughly with his. (She was so heartbreakingly lovely, delicate in a way that was uncommon among their kind… but despite appearances she was not weak. Never weak. Too often did people forget the kind of strength it took to stay kind in a cruel world. And she was a curious creature too, as eager to learn him as he was to learn her. Azriel also quickly found that her shyness did not extend to the bedroom, not with him - _Mother above_ , she would truly be the death of him, one of these days… but he would would only be too happy to go.)

And when they were finally sated, and Elain slid into his side, draping her naked body over his, he did not find it in him to move away. To his eternal surprise, he drifted off into peaceful sleep.

His sleep remained completely undisturbed, to the point that when he finally opened his eyes, he was utterly disoriented. He sat up slightly in the pre-dawn light, running a hand through his ruffled hair and catalogued his surroundings with a shocking lack of panic.

He was home and-

“Elain,” he murmured softly, voice gruff with sleep, as he spotted her lying in his bed with him. Unharmed by his night terrors. Still so devastatingly perfect.

He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her, the bare skin of her back aglow in the light of the slowly rising sun.

Azriel moved closer to her without hesitation, curling his naked body around hers and using a hand to pull her firmly into him, her back curved perfectly into his chest. She sighed contently against him, still fast asleep, and Azriel found himself pressing light kisses to the apple of her cheek, peppering them down and down until his face was hidden in the crook of her neck. His hands roamed freely over her sides with no real intent, simply touching her to revel in the feel of actually having her _here_ with him.

He pressed another soft kiss under her chin, to her throat, her shoulder. Again and again and again, until his mind was filled with nothing but _Elain, Elain, Elain_.

Azriel immediately felt it when Elain finally awoke in his arms, despite the fact that she kept her eyes firmly closed. A small smile played at her lips, as if she couldn’t quite suppress her happiness.

He kissed her cheek again, lingering there as he spoke. “I’m afraid aren’t quite stealthy enough to fool me just yet,” he whispered, grinning when she sighed with faux disappointment.

Elain blinked her eyes open then, turning her head slightly so she could gaze up at him. Her gaze was soft with sleep, sparkling with quiet, gentle mischief. “I didn’t want to risk you stopping,” she told him, reaching up to trail light fingers down his jawline.

Azriel kissed her behind her ear in response, still grinning like a fool. He didn’t deserve this, he didn’t. But he couldn’t let go of it, of _her_ , either. So he would stay with her, for as long as Elain found him worthy. He would stay _for_ her.

His wing curled in around them then, cocooning them gently until their world narrowed down to this beautiful moment. “Then I won’t stop,” he said.

And he didn’t. He didn’t.


	2. Of Hidden Talents (Feysand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a quick little feysand drabble based on the fact that I think rhys is full of unexpected hidden talents. Enjoy!

“You’re just full of surprises, aren't you?” Feyre found herself commenting, smiling slightly as she tried not to groan in pleasure under Rhys’ hands.

He chuckled from where he was seated behind her, the sound sending a thrill through her spine, even _decades_ into their relationship. “I should hope so; I have to keep my High Lady entertained somehow. Wouldn’t want her eternity to get boring.”

“Boring? How could I ever get bored with a mate who thinks so much of himself?” She shot back, though its effect was lost when she leaned further into him, her hands running over the legs that were on either side of her. She could feel the delicious heat of his bare chest so close behind her, the thin nightdress she was wearing a poor barrier between them. 

Rhys’ fingers continued to comb through her hair, expertly separating it into three equal parts. “I take offense to that.”

Feyre let out an aborted snort. “No, you don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” Rhys agreed, in a blithe voice.

They fell into a comfortable silence then, built on years of learning how to just _be_ together. Neither of them felt the need to always fill the air between them with pointless chatter. Oh, they liked to joke and bicker… but they also knew when to let words fade away and just enjoy each other’s company.

It had been happening more of late, likely because Rhys had refused to leave Feyre’s side for the past few months. He was a constant presence at her side, though he did his best not to hover too much (he knew all too well how she loathed feeling locked in, how it still made her bones lock up in fear, even after all this time). He needn’t have worried; Feyre never, _never_ felt tied down by her mate, never felt confined by him. She knew that even now, when he was so concerned about her, he would give her space if she asked.

(He’d once told her, in a fit of hopeless romanticism, that he would give her the very stars above Velaris if he could. Feyre had believed him, of course, if only because she said she would do the same for him.)

So Feyre was quiet, letting Rhys gently braid her hair as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. She’d been utterly surprised when he’d offered to do it for her earlier, after he’d heard her curse in front of the mirror while she struggled with trying to tame her wild locks into something more manageable. Feyre was so tired these days and sore too, the heavier she got. And she was constantly hot then cold, her hair always in the way and, _Cauldron_ , she didn’t care for it much now and all the work it took to keep it neat, not when she was already so uncomfortable. She’d been beyond tempted to just chop it all off, had Rhys not stepped in when he did with his innocuous offer.

At first she tried to deny the existence of a problem but she really couldn’t hide anything from Rhys; he knew her too well, felt her struggles through their mating bond and tried to ease her discomfort as much as he could. ( _Rightly so_ , Feyre sometimes thought when she particularly annoyed with how limited she was lately, _considering he’s the one that put me into this situation in the first place_.) 

So here they were, Rhys’s gentle hands working wonders on Feyre’s nerves, his fingers softly tugging at her hair as he built the braid into something spectacular; Feyre herself was usually no slouch when it came her hair (at least when she wasn’t so cranky), but she had the feeling that Rhys was even better. _So many hidden talents, this mate of mine_.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She’d felt his hesitancy when he first offered, that pang of grief that he’d been unable to conceal from her.

“My sister,” Rhys said after a long pause. His voice had lost that light-hearted edge from earlier, filled instead with wistful regret. “She’d come to me when our mother was too busy for it. She could have asked the servants, of course… but she liked to spend a few moments with me, I think. She continued to ask even long after she could do it by herself. I never had the heart to say no.” 

Feyre’s own heart ached for her mate, for the family he’d lost so long ago. He rarely spoke of the little sister she’d never meet, even less so than his mother. From what she’d gleaned over the years, his sister had been quite a bit younger than him, had looked up to him in a way no one else ever had. Feyre couldn’t even imagine what it had been like for him to have to bury her broken body.

She rubbed her thumbs comfortingly over the sides of his knees. _I’m sorry_ , she sent softly to him through their bond. _I’m sorry_. 

Rhys’ mind caressed hers. _Me too_.

Feyre kept running her hands soothingly over him, tempted to turn around and pull him to her, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders of his. She didn’t though; the act of braiding seemed to calm him… like coming home to something he’d thought he’d long forgotten. (Still, she wished she could protect him from all the pain he endured… but that same pain had made him into the wonderful male he was today.) 

When he was finally done, she saw his finished work briefly through his eyes, the image flashing through her mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Feyre said with a smile, reaching up to run her fingers over the intricate pattern he’d managed to weave her hair into. “Thank you.”

Rhys’ strong arms around wrapped around her body, finally pulling her back to rest against his chest. “I figured it was about time I got some practice,” he whispered in her ear as he moved one hand to cover her rounded belly. “I wouldn’t want our poor daughter to be left with an inept father.”

Feyre tangled her fingers with Rhys’, holding them over her stomach, where their unborn baby was slowly growing. “You could never be an inept father, Rhys,” she told him softly. Rhys only pressed kiss under her jaw in response, though she could feel his quiet gratitude for her faith in him. “Besides, how do you know it’ll be a girl?” Feyre continued, turning her head so she could arch an eyebrow at him.

Mischief lit his violet eyes. “Perhaps I asked Elain.”

Feyre leveled a look at him. “Elain would never tell you, even if she knew.” Her sister had become quite the responsible seer over the years, never revealing more than was necessary. (Well, _that_ and Feyre had wanted it to be a surprise, telling Elain in no uncertain terms not to let Rhys charm the answer out of her.)

“Then let’s call it a father’s intuition,” Rhys replied now, unable to stop his grin.

Feyre laughed, leaning her head against the edge of his jaw. “She’s going to have you wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?” 

“Of course,” he kissed her forehead, his happiness a near tangible thing. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Feyre could only cuddle in closer. She looked at where their joined hands were resting on her belly. _Don’t worry, baby_ , she thought, _we love you already, no what you turn out to be._

(A few years later, when their daughter runs up to Feyre, her hair braided in a crown around her head, little flowers carefully tucked in the midnight blue strands, she doesn’t need to ask who did it. Rhys’ proud smile is answer enough.)


	3. A 'Training' Game (Elriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one includes Azriel training Elain so she can better control her visions... his methods, however, are a bit unorthodox. Written from Elain's POV. Let me know what you think ;)

It started as training, this little game of theirs, a way to practice control over her visions so they wouldn’t blindside her, crowd her mind like buzzing garden pests. The visions were always there just underneath the surface, ready to take over and shatter her if she gave in. At first Elain had thought that they were vivid daydreams, some sort of byproduct of becoming Fae... and then when it was clear that Nesta didn’t experience anything at all like the terrors that plagued Elain’s every hour, she thought maybe the visions were a punishment. Punishment for her vanity, for her wilful ignorance of her family’s position, of Feyre’s pain. And Graysen. It was punishment for him too, punishment for her betrayal of him (because she was Fae now, and he would _hate_ her, _did_ hate her, but she loved him, she loved him, _she loved him_ and she deserved this for her betrayal, she did, she did).

So she was in a perpetual fog, her thoughts struggling to maintain clarity under the constant onslaught of sights and sounds and sometimes even smells that were supposed to be far, far away, in another time and place entirely. She could feel the visions pushing in, each of them vying for her attention... and with her mind pulled a thousand different ways, Elain couldn’t even explain what was happening, didn’t even _understand_ it.

It was no wonder then, that no one, not her sisters or her supposed mate knew what was happening to her. (Only one person figured it out, the only one who always, always _listened -_ whether it was to shadows or broken girls like Elain.)

Even she herself started to believe she was slowly going insane. It wouldn’t surprise her; she _was_ the weakest of her sisters, the one to be protected and coddled. Of course Nesta would survive what the Cauldron did to them, would steal the Cauldron’s very power as vengeance. And Feyre, the youngest of three, the true survivor... she was _born_ to be High Fae. But Elain. Elain was nothing like the two of them, her brave, strong sisters. She’d always yearned for a simple life. A life lived in quiet love. Until Hybern. Until the Cauldron. Until she felt her sanity being pulled from her, bit by bit, vision by vision. (The gift of prescience was not a gift after all, but the most wicked sort of curse. She knew that even before she realized what she was.)

And then came those blessed words, the statement that broke through her fog.

_“You’re a seer.”_

Azriel’s voice, Azriel’s patience, Azriel’s _understanding_ had given Elain something she sorely needed. An identity. A purpose. A reason for all this madness - madness that wasn’t even really _madness_ , but the  _future_. 

_A seer._

The meaning of that didn’t fully set in until the final battle against Hybern, when she’d seen what would happen unless she _did_ something. And so she had wielded Truth Teller in inexperienced hands and used it to cleave into the King - used it to set the future right. (She’d felt the shadows with then, but she hadn’t feared them because they felt like scarred hands running gently over her skin. And they had guided her true.) Using Truth Teller had shown her something vital  - it had shown her that being a seer was a burden, _yes_ , but one she could bear if she could use it to help others. 

But it was only after the battle was done, after she and her sisters buried their father, that she finally remembered to return the blade to its owner.

Azriel had taken it slowly from her, something like pride and relief shining in his hazel eyes. And when she made to move away, she’d felt one of those scarred hands touched her shoulder softly.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

Elain simply looked at him, confused.

“Powers like yours, they can be overwhelming, but in battle the reaction can be somewhat... delayed,” he explained, ever-patient. (But never condescending. Never that.)

She lifted a hand to her temple, as if his words had reminded her of its constant throbbing pain. Holding the visions back always hurt, but she’d needed to keep her mind clear to help her sisters. But no one had asked her about the effort it took. No one had given it a thought... except Azriel.

She had a feeling that Azriel was an exception in many regards. (He certainly was exceptionally beautiful, she couldn’t help but think, even injured and battle-worn as he was now. Others might find him cold, detached, but Elain... Elain had always seen the sheer depth of feeling behind the mask of indifference, behind the elegantly poised courtier he often played.)

“It’s fine,” she told him shakily in reply. 

But Azriel, as always, saw right through her. “If you want, I can help you with that. Most powers are draining, but they can be trained. Even gifts as rare as ours can be controlled.”

_Ours._ The human Elain had once been would have politely declined the offer. But she was mortal no longer and she refused to succumb to the fog again. So instead she found the strength within her to nod. 

The training only started a few weeks after the battle, the entirety of the Night Court needing time to heal and recover from a war that had nearly cost them everything. When it did finally start, she was rather surprised by his approach.

“You want me to predict when you are going to _jump out at me_?” she asked him with raised brows, momentarily lucid enough to hold a proper conversation (and lucid enough to understand how odd his version of ‘training’ was).

Azriel kneeled down next to where she was weeding the garden, brushing back some errant flowers so she could reach without hindrance. “It seems to me that you need practice with small, finite things. Precision rather than breadth. You need to be able to scale down what you’re seeing into something manageable.”

“And you think it will help if I... track you? Anticipate your future movements?”

A half-smile. “I have been told I’m difficult to pin down.”

Elain had no doubt of that. She felt the visions play at the edge of her thoughts, as if waiting for her to let her stubborn guard down so that they could surge in. She gave Azriel a tiny nod, hesitant but willing to learn.

“Then we’ll begin right away.” And with that, he was suddenly gone, faded into the shadows of the flowers all around. Elain blinked in shock.

And then promptly jumped with a surprised yelp when she felt a hand tap her from behind. She would have fallen over too, were it not for those same hands going to her elbows to steady her. Azriel helped her up to her feet as she stewed in her own disappointment; she hadn’t had the slightest idea he would do that, hadn’t even _thought_ of focusing part of her mind in the near future.

Azriel didn’t comment on that however, didn’t mock her as others might have. “Again?” he asked, fingers still soft on her elbows.

She nodded, her face the picture of determination. Azriel gave her elbows a reassuring squeeze before disappearing from sight once more.

And so it continued for the next few weeks, with Azriel popping in front of Elain at random moments, with no distinct pattern she could discern. He gave her no warning. She’d be in the garden or the kitchen or the library and then he’d suddenly be at her side in a blink. And every time, _every time_ , Elain would jump, unawares. (Spymaster, indeed.) If she didn’t know better she might even begin to think that he _enjoyed_  startling her. (He certainly wore that quietly amused expression more often now.)

She had to admit this training was helping her though. It gave her a point of focus, allowed her to direct the wild energy of her mind into a single strand of the future rather than many dozens that usually beset her. And she was learning that if she constantly monitored the hazy smoke of the future for Azriel, the visions became almost background noise; a sixth sense even. The only time the visions overwhelmed her now was when there was something _big_  coming.

Now, if only she could get that tingle of warning whenever Azriel was planning to surprise her  _earlier,_ so she could finally catch him off guard. (Not many people knew of Elain’s competitive streak, but she was fairly certain her Illyrian companion was beginning to sense it.)

She almost got him once. She’d been in the kitchen with Nuala and Cerridwen at the time, hands covered in dough for the morning bread when she’d felt the telltale tingle in her spine. The misty clouds of the future cleared for just a moment and she saw Azriel standing in the kitchen beside her, wearing the smallest of smirks. She blinked and the image was gone, Azriel along with it, but then she saw the shadows lengthen at her side and she knew he’d be there any second. So she got herself ready to pounce on him... only to have him appear _behind_ her instead. She was so shocked that when she whipped around, she knocked a bowl of flour off the counter and sent it flying into his leather-clad chest.

No one had spoken for a long moment, Elain watching in mute horror as the flour settled on Azriel, covering him from head to toe. (The manners she’d learned so young, the ladylike etiquette, screamed inside her at the sight.)

But then, wonder of wonders, _Azriel_  had broken into loud laughter, utterly surprising them all. And Elain had  _basked_  in it, unused to seeing the usually reserved shadowsinger so carefree. She couldn’t help but join in, not realizing that this was the first time she had well and truly laughed in _months_. 

It took her a while to notice that he stopped however, and when she finally did, she found him staring at her with a wicked gleam in his eye. She knew immediately what he was going to do. 

Azriel took a slow step forward, holding out flour-covered arms. Elain retreated a step, wide-eyed even as she struggled to suppress the smile trying to escape. Azriel shifted forward slightly more and in the next moment Elain was off, darting out of the kitchen. But Azriel was still the spymaster, the shadowsinger, and caught up quickly, scooping her up from behind and lifting her from her feet. She struggled fruitlessly against him, once again breaking into laughter when he went so far as to shake his flour-covered hair into her neck. In response, she rubbed some of the remaining dough from the unmade bread onto his cheek, having to reach over her shoulder to do so.

Azriel sputtered slightly at that (actually _sputtered_ ) but quickly gained his composure and was about to retaliate when Rhysand rounded the corner.

At the sight of their High Lord, Azriel immediately put Elain back on her feet, though it didn’t escape her notice that his hands lingered on her waist, as if steadying her (or was it himself?). Elain was certain that the almost indiscernible light pink dusting Azriel’s cheeks matched hers.

Rhys smirked at them both before waving his hand. “By all means, carry on.”

Unfortunately, the presence of Feyre’s mate had quite ruined the mood, and they went their separate ways for the day, though she was happy to note that Azriel’s step seemed just that little bit lighter. 

(That night, she told Lucien that she couldn’t accept the mating bond. It wasn’t fair to him, to either of them, for her to keep letting him hope for something that wasn’t going to happen. Besides that, Lucien looked at her like she was a fragile, breakable thing... like her powers would shatter her at any moment. And once they might have - once, they’d gotten close, but she wasn’t that woman anymore. And the bond between her and Lucien, this Cauldron-given thing that she was supposed to revel in... she didn’t want it anymore. It felt too much like the powers that were thrust upon her. It felt too much like an iron ring. So she said no. And Lucien, honorable Lucien, took it as well as he was able. He left the Night Court then, promising them all that he _would_  return one day. Elain wished him well and hoped he would find the happiness _he_  so deserved.)

(It took her a while to realize that she also said no because her heart was already filling with someone else, though.) 

This thing between Azriel and Elain changed after that. The training becoming more a game that was cherished by both of them, never ceasing to lighten their darker days. 

And the surprises, the little chases, those changed too. Instead of just appearing, Azriel would now always find some way to touch her. Sometimes it was hand on her elbow or shoulder or hip or waist. Sometimes it was light fingers against her hair, her neck. But most often it was a brief, full-body embrace when he would suddenly grab her from behind (rarely, oh-so-rarely he would accompany that short embrace with a whisper of ‘surprise’ in her ear, sending delicious, unfamiliar shivers down her spine.)

The most memorable one happened as she was trailing behind her sisters and their chosen partners on their way into Velaris. She had been humming quietly to herself when she felt the tingling in her spine and a vision flashed through her mind. So Elain didn’t tense at all when arms suddenly surrounded her from behind, pulling her into an alcove off the hallway. In fact, all she did was suppress her joyous laughter, clutching at the arm around her waist.

“I’m starting to think this game of ours is teaching you the wrong things,” Azriel whispered in her ear, voice vaguely amused. “It might not always be _me_ jumping out at you. Perhaps our next lessons should be on how to fight back?”

Elain leaned back into him, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. But she didn’t look at him, liking the thrill of this game they played over and over. “Or maybe you should trust in the fact that I'll always know if it’s you.”

Azriel’s fingers tightened in the material of her dress for a brief, brief moment. He seemed to hesitate as he forced his fingers to let go, smoothing over the dress’ now rumpled cloth. Elain practically shivered in his arms. And she saw... she saw the possibilities of where this could go and,  _oh,_ how she wanted them. 

Azriel curled further around her and for the first time Elain felt just how much _bigger_  he was than her. (She forgot sometimes, that he was just as much an Illyrian warrior as Rhys and Cassian.) She could feel the warmth of his breath as he ducked his face into the crook of her neck. Her skin broke into goosebumps when his lips barely grazed her neck in a butterfly kiss. She felt his arms tighten around her and she felt one of the possible futures take form, until-

“Where’s Elain?”

Elain froze at the sound of Feyre’s voice. She was about to reply when Azriel pressed another kiss to her neck, stopping the words in her throat. He smiled into her skin.

“Looks like you need a little more training, if you didn’t see that coming,” he told her, still faintly amused, but with a tentative note she didn’t miss.

“I suppose we should continue the game then,” she replied, running her hand along his arm until she found his. (She didn’t want to give him a chance to run off just yet... Elain had the feeling she was not the only one who was afraid of what was happening between them.)

He allowed her to tangle their fingers together, breath stuttering momentarily against her neck. “I suppose so,” he said. “But not today.”

And then he released her from his warm hold and once again disappeared into shadow. Elain immediately missed his presence, his comforting scent all around her. She took a steadying breath, trying to calm her racing heart, before she straightened her skirt and joined her sisters.

She spent that night with most of the Inner Circle; Azriel was the only one who didn’t make an appearance. She couldn’t really fault him for his reticence. In her experience, broken hearts like theirs could never be unbroken. (But the pieces could be put back together, even if the shape was different than before.)

That night, as Elain sat in quiet thought while her friends, her _family_ , laughed around her, her head came to a decision that her heart had already come to long ago. A future solidified in her mind. _Unbreakable_. She knew what to do.

The next morning she did not wait for Azriel to come to her. No, instead she followed the thread in her mind that tied her to his future, followed where he _would_  go instead of where he _was_. It led her to a nook in the garden that she was unaware of... and there she waited. And when Azriel finally appeared in front of her, solidifying from shadow, he was unaware of her presence.

But he did not jump into an attack when she wrapped her arms around his waist, fitting herself perfectly between his glorious wings. He did freeze though, even if it was only for a second. But that second of surprise was enough to please Elain; she’d _finally_ managed to sneak up on her shadowsinger.

“Got you,” she said breathlessly into his ear, having to stretch up to reach. His wings fluttered slightly, his body relaxing completely in her hold.

Azriel twisted in her arms, eyes alight and wearing a rare smile. Elain’s heart ached at the beauty of it. (And she was so, so relieved to find none of his earlier hesitancy in that hazel gaze. Perhaps she wasn’t the only on who came to a decision? _Mother above_ , she hoped that was the case.)

“You did it,” he repeated with quiet wonder, a hand coming to rest on the side of her neck. “I knew you could.”

“Well, I had a wonderful mentor. In fact, I’d like to thank him...” Elain swallowed against her nerves. She thought of Nesta and Feyre and the uncompromising steel of their courage and held onto the vision that had come to her the night before. “I’d like to thank him for his everything that he’s done for me, but I’m not entirely sure he would open to it.”

Azriel peered down at her for a long moment. His face was impassive but his eyes... his eyes, they told her _so much_. She fidgeted slightly under their onslaught, looking down. But she didn’t get too far with that, not when Azriel tilted her chin back up with the utmost gentleness, scars featherlight against her unblemished skin.

“I think you might be surprised by what he is open to,” he told her, all seriousness. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Elain felt as if her heart had beat right out of her chest. She couldn’t have stopped the beaming smile she let out if she had wanted to. Her hands fell from his waist as she reached up to cup his heated cheeks between her palms. He was practically buzzing beneath her touch but still kept carefully still. _Waiting_ , she realized. Waiting for _her_.

Well, she didn’t make him wait too long. Elain rose to the tips of her toes and pressed her lips lightly against Azriel’s, her body aligned perfectly with his. Yet, the kiss remained a tender thing, a sweet declaration despite the passion roaring in their veins. 

_I choose you,_ she thought. _I’ll always choose you._

The time for hesitancy was over then and when Azriel tugged her impossibly closer and deepened their kiss, making into something new and utterly exciting, she _knew_ he felt the same. She _knew_ he had made his decision.

(In the back of her mind, she promised herself that she would tell him that one day, tell him that _he_ was her always. But she wasn’t worried about it now - they had an _eternity_ waiting for them... and she planned to enjoy every second.)


	4. Of Drunken Shenanigans (Elriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is yet another elriel drabble, but I couldn't help myself. I promise to share some more Feysand next. This one is all drunk!elriel fluff, with a bit of the inner circle on the side ;) Written for this anonymous request on Tumblr: ‘how about a drabble where Elain gets really drunk and she’s super giggly and emotional and Az helps her out?’

There was nothing in the world that Azriel found quite as endearing as a drunk Elain Archeron. Perhaps it was because she differed so much from the rest of the Inner Circle when she was intoxicated. Elain was not a rowdy drunk like Cassian, or a provocative drunk like Mor, or a contemplative drunk like Rhys, or even a mixture of all three like Feyre was.

No, Elain was a happy, _giggly_ drunk. And, _by the Cauldron_ , it was a glorious thing to behold. He loved seeing her be so free, seeing her let go of those perfect manners and show that beautifully big heart of hers to the world. (And he loved the fact that she was even able to do all of that now. There was a time when he’d worried that the burden of her visions would leave no room for her happiness. Oh, he’d had faith she could learn to master the powers she’d been given… but self-mastery and being _happy_ were entirely different things. He’d learnt that the hard way.)

Azriel was also rather certain that the rest of the Inner Circle enjoyed it too, not that they would ever admit it. (In fact, he was fairly certain that Elain could endear herself to even their greatest enemies, but that was another matter completely.) Her drunken shenanigans were never mean-spirited or violent like others’ might be. She mostly just flitted from person to person when drinking, as if she wanted nothing more than to make them all happy. She laughed with Mor, linking their arms together as they both gently teased him. She babbled at Nesta, who watched her with a rare smile. She danced with Feyre in the middle of the packed crowd at Rita’s, both of them drawing no small amount of attention from the other patrons. She tried to arm-wrestle Cassian, wanting to prove how strong she’d become – though this only happened once. (Cassian had laughed a good hour about it after, and still frequently brought it up, if only to see Elain flush in embarrassment.) She embraced Rhys with all the enthusiasm of a sister; something she rarely dared to do sober, still having a hard time seeing him as both High Lord and friend. She even approached _Amren_ , making sure the ancient-being turned Fae was remembering to eat and drink properly; things that she hadn’t had to do until now. 

But most of all, Elain _laughed_ , bright and true. And she almost always did _that_ at his side, arms wrapped tightly around his waist even as she leaned away from him to listen to one of Cassian’s many sordid tales. ( _Mother above_ , he hoped she never lost her propensity for drunken tactility… or her propensity for touching him in general.) 

And Azriel watched it all with a smile on his face, unable to even _try_ to stop it from forming on his lips as he watched the other half of his heart interact so easily with the rest of their family. He didn’t deserve the kind of happiness Elain brought him. The kind of happiness that made his heart ache to the point it almost hurt. The kind of happiness that came from a life full of steady, ardent love. He didn’t deserve it, _her_. After all, how could he?

He was made of shadow and violence and _pain_. And Elain… Elain was _Elain_. A seer of incomparable strength. A loyal sister. A steadfast friend. A passionate lover. A new immortal with most generous heart he knew.

So, no, he didn’t deserve the tender light she brought to his life.

But then… then there were moments like this. Moments when she did something, something small but significant, and that surge of pure, utter happiness would hit him and Azriel knew, _he knew_ , that he could never leave what they had behind. No matter how much he sometimes thought he should. (Besides, he reminded himself, it wasn’t _his_ choice who Elain decided to be with – that choice was hers alone. As it should be. Too often had the members of their family lost the right to make choices.) 

And, regardless of it all, he simply couldn’t give up _moments like this._

A moment like this… when Elain stared up at him, her eyes hazy with alcohol but still ever so earnest. She’d flung herself at him mere seconds before, her arms tight around his neck so she wouldn’t fall from the tips of her toes. She swayed a bit in his embrace, skin aglow from all the dancing she’d been doing with her sisters and Mor while he’d been off getting drinks. Unsuccessfully, it seemed, since Elain had decided to waylay him halfway to the bar, nearly tackling him in her enthusiasm.

Azriel couldn’t find it in him to rustle up even an ounce of annoyance at this turn of events. Instead he only tightened his hold on Elain, hands soothing over her waist.

“Not that this isn’t a nice surprise, but I was only going to be gone for a few moments,” he commented lightly, that infernal smile that had been pulling at his lips all night only widening in her presence.

“Sorry,” she replied with a giggle, in a voice that was not at all apologetic. “Couldn’t let you go. Had to tell you so something first.”

“And what’s that?”

“I love you,” she said, all seriousness, her eyes shining.

Azriel wouldn’t be able describe the feeling in his chest that those words caused if he _tried_. He leaned a little closer to her, pressing their foreheads together. “I know,” is all he said, the words both a declaration and awed kind of realization.

Elain’s eyes widened as she shook her head vehemently, seemingly worried he wasn’t quite appreciating the depth of her feelings for him. “No, you don’t understand. I really and truly _love_ you.”

“I know,” he repeated reassuringly, carefully brushing some stray hair out of her eyes (they were a deep, soulful brown, her eyes – he examined them as often as he could). “Do you want to know why?”

She nodded, her gaze growing heavy as she tilted her head further into his hand. “Mmhm.” 

Azriel grinned, his thumb tracing the edge of her lips. “It’s because I love you too.”

Excitement lit Elain’s gaze. She bounced on her toes. “Really and truly?”

He couldn’t help but laugh, almost feeling like he was floating, his heart racing in his chest. (Perhaps he had also overdone it slightly with the drinking, but he honestly didn’t care in this moment. In this beautiful, beautiful moment.) “Really and truly,” he repeated back to her. 

She nuzzled his nose with her own, laughing delightedly along with him. “I _knew_ it.”

“Did you now?”

She nodded again, biting her lip. “Mmhm.” 

Azriel found himself admiring the way stray curls of hair that had escaped her braid now clung to the bare skin of her neck. How he wanted to kiss his way up that soft, soft skin until she shivered underneath him. His eyes rose back to her face, distracted briefly by the lip she still had caught between her teeth – he wanted _his_ teeth there, _his_ mouth on hers… until she made that little noise he couldn’t get enough of, that little half-gasp of pleasure she could never suppress.

He didn’t even realize his arm had tightened around her waist until she hummed, swaying a bit as she adjusted her body against his, her nails scraping against the back of his neck.

“And how did you know?” he finally managed to ask, his voice rough. 

Elain’s happy gaze turned serious – there was something quietly haunted underneath the fog of the alcohol. “I don’t see much good… but I do see that. I always see that.” 

Azriel didn’t bother to ask how and where she saw it; if she saw it in visions or in the look her wore whenever she was around him. It didn’t matter much anyways. All that mattered was that it was the truth. He _loved_ her. And she loved him. _Really and truly_ , he thought with fondness. (Elain became so sweetly talkative when she drank.)

Instead, he finally gave into temptation and proceeded to kiss his way up her neck until he reached her plump, enticing lips. She let out that little half-gasp as their tongues danced together, though it was drowned out by the noise of the crowd filling up Rita’s. But no matter. They always had later tonight. With a final kiss, he pulled away from her lips, only to tuck her head into his neck so he could lean his chin against her hair and simply breathe in her comforting scent.

For now, he was happy just standing here with Elain in his arms, the both of them swaying gently with the music. He should probably move them back the dance floor, rejoin their friends… but this was a perfect, beautiful moment. And he didn’t want to do anything that might ruin it.


	5. Of Puppy Love (Feysand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, fluffy and hopefully funny drabble from Rhys' POV. Written for this anonymous prompt on tumblr: 'What about Rhys giving a puppy to Feyre and then him getting jealous af because of all the attention she's giving to it?

Rhys had always considered himself a skilled gift-giver. He enjoyed being one in fact, liked that he was able to make his friends, his family, smile with whatever trinket he had found for them. Oftentimes, he didn’t have a particular reason for doing so either, just finding something that he thought would suit one of his Inner Circle. For Mor, this mostly consisted of expensive clothes and the other luxuries she so liked. For Cassian it was always weapons. Azriel most often got the same, though Rhys knew that the spymaster appreciated information above all else. Amren, of course, loved her jewels.

And then there was Feyre – Rhys didn’t limit himself in the slightest when it came to giving gifts to Feyre. His mate had spent too much of her life going underappreciated or disrespected or even _ignored_ … and there were moments when Rhys wanted to make sure that she knew just how much she was truly appreciated, truly _loved_. And _Cauldron_ , there was this smile she’d give him when he got a gift a _right_ , making her eyes light up in a way that he once thought he might never witness, not after all she’d been through.

Rhys would do almost anything to keep that smile on her face, directed so lovingly at him. (How anyone could willfully turn away from beautiful, brilliant Feyre Archeron, Rhys would never understand.) So he tended to give Feyre all sorts of gifts… though they were always things he was sure she’d enjoy, things that had meaning. What Rhys had never considered, however, was that there was such a thing as being _too_ skilled a gift-giver.

But apparently there was. As was evidenced by the fact that his lovely, gorgeous, _amazing_ mate was absolutely and completely _ignoring_ him in favor of her gift. 

“Aren’t you a good boy?” Feyre cooed, actually _cooed_ , at the little hound she cradled in her arms. The pup responded by licking his mate in the face, her laughter spilling out into their sitting room.

Rhys shook his head with exasperation. He had found the puppy mere hours earlier, abandoned by one of the waterways that ran through Velaris, fur matted with dirt and clearly hungry. The little hound clearly belonged to the Night Court, looking nothing like most dogs that could be found in the mortal lands. Underneath the filth, his coat was a midnight blue, fur sure to be shiny and downy soft when clean. His ears pointed up, tufts of that dark blue fur spilling from the ends. His tail was long enough to wag, the tip speckled with white – like stars against the night sky. And then there were the eyes, big and deep and violent and staring up at Rhys soulfully.

Rhys knew then and there that he couldn’t just leave him there, alone by the water. He’d picked the pup up without another thought, wrapping him carefully in his cloak to ward against the chill. He also knew he wouldn’t be able to lift this little hound for very long; this particular breed grew to be very large, waist-height at a minimum, with jaw-strength to rival even the biggest beasts in Prythian.

The hound would be quite the hunter when he was fully grown. And Rhys’ first thought to that was, of course, _Feyre._ What could be better than a little hunter for his favorite huntress? It was decided then – he wouldn’t just find the pup a new home, he would bring him to _his_ home, to his mate and her earth-shattering smiles. 

Of course, Rhys hadn’t expected for _that_ smile to be directed at the _puppy_. And to not even be invited in on the cuddling. Not that Rhys particularly wanted cuddling. (Alright, so that _might_ be a bold-faced lie, but it was also _besides the point_ – also, who wouldn’t want to spend a day entwined with their mate? Especially if that mate was anything like Feyre…)

But even though Rhys wanted some of Feyre’s attention, he didn’t do anything to interrupt the moment. Rare was the day that Feyre laughed so freely; she was still haunted by Hybern, even a year after the war’s end. Rhys could therefore perhaps forgive the pup for his attention-thievery, if only because of the happy shine in his mate’s eyes.

But that didn’t mean Rhys wasn’t going to _brood_ about it. So he did just that, sitting on one of the armchairs with a loud sigh, watching as Feyre continued to cuddle and play with the pup on the carpet.

Nearly two hours later, Feyre finally deigned to speak to him.

“Never thought I’d see the day where I had a new male in my life,” she said with a happy sigh, nuzzling her face against the puppy’s. 

“That’s it, the little hound is out,” Rhys exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at the pup, who only stared at him with big, curious eyes. “He’s clearly trying to steal your affections from me.”

The pup barked in what seemed like agreement. Despite himself Rhys felt a smile tug at his face. The little hound had _personality_. 

His mate laughed at him, peppering the hound’s snout with kisses. “Rhys, my love, he really doesn’t have to _try_. He won my affections the second you handed him over.”

Rhys sighed dramatically, coming to sit by them on the carpet. “I knew it. I’ve let a thief into our home.”

Feyre considered him for a long moment (a part of Rhys _rejoiced_ at the feeling of her eyes on him again… it felt like it had been an eternity). “I’ll make you a deal, High Lord,” she announced.

“Will you now, High Lady?”

“If you promise to let the little thief stay,” Feyre tapped Rhys briefly on the chin, grinning, “I’ll let _you_ name him.”

He raised a brow in response, shifting closer. “And what makes you think that little gift will tempt me?

“ _Rhys_ ,” she said, giving him a look as if to say ‘please, I know you want to name the puppy’.

_Damn,_ he thought, quietly awed at the realization _, she really_ does _know me_. _Almost too well, at this point._

After all, he _did_ want to name the hound, had wanted to ever since he first picked the him up by the waterway. In all honestly, the puppy had only had to give him one soulful look with those big eyes and Rhys had already been utterly lost to him.

_Not only a thief, but apparently also a damned good one… He’ll fit right in_. 

“Very well then,” Rhys acquiesced, tucking some of Feyre’s stray hair behind her ear before trailing his fingertips softly down the side of her bare neck, touch feather light. Feyre shivered slightly under his hand. “However, I do think the deal could use a little sweetening, don’t you?” 

Feyre narrowed her eyes, though it was belied by the mischievous glint in them. “And how, exactly, would you want me to sweeten the deal?”

“I have some ideas.”

Rhys sent a few of those _ideas_ straight into Feyre’s mind, watching triumphantly as her eyes dilated, as her breath stuttered momentarily. She sent him another glare at that. And yet she still put the puppy down for the first time since she’d gotten her hands on him… before promptly grabbing Rhys and winnowing them both into their bedroom. 

Rhys would have made a comment on her eagerness were it not for the fact that his mouth and tongue were suddenly very busy doing other, far more _enjoyable_ things.

A few rather successful hours later, Feyre was once again holding the pup – only this time she lay cuddled with him in the middle of their bed, Rhys curled around them both. Feyre had brought him up mere seconds earlier, not having the heart to leave the hound to sleep downstairs alone. The puppy let out a yawn now, eyes shuttering as he lost his valiant battle against sleep.

“How about we call him Little Rhys?” Rhys whispered, smirking.

Feyre scoffed. “We already have one of those.”

“You didn’t think it was so _little_ a few moments ago, Feyre darling.”

His mate only laughed at him in response. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Not sure whether I should be offended by that,” Rhys remarked drily, uncertain whether he was referring to the laughter or the comment. ( _Both_ , he decided.)

But Feyre did what any good mate would. She just continued laughing, only attempting to stifle it for the sake of the puppy lying asleep against her chest. And there was that smile again, blinding in its brilliance. Rhys couldn’t help but press a kiss against Feyre’s neck, reaching around her to gently ruffle the fur atop the hound’s head for good measure.

Both he and Feyre joined their new friend in slumber not long after.

In the end, the choice of name was actually rather a simple one. Rhys thought of it immediately upon waking to the hound slobbering over his face, licking at Rhys’ chin and neck. He huffed a laugh as he pushed the puppy away from his face, instead picking him up and standing silently from the bed, where Feyre still slept on.

“Come on, Thief,” Rhys said softly as he headed to the door. “Best let Feyre sleep.”

Thief only continued to lick at him. Rhys found that he didn’t mind.


	6. A Softer Side (Nessian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I kept getting requests on tumblr for a nessian drabble and I've finally given in and written one. I found this one a bit more difficult because I wasn't sure how best to characterise Nesta so I hope the end result is good! 
> 
> This is a simple fluffly cuddle piece (though with some language at the beginning... what can I say, it's Cassian...)

Cassian had a special talent for pissing Nesta off; that much had been clear since the day they first met. But like so many of his talents – fighting, flying, even fucking – he truly _enjoyed_ it, enjoyed riling Nesta up to the point she finally lost control of that cold and careful poise she shrouded herself in. Until her remarks weren’t just cutting in their accuracy, but fiery in their fervor. 

Cauldron damn him, he loved seeing Nesta like that, eyes alight in righteous anger, hair coming loose from the bun she’d wrangled it into hours earlier. He loved seeing her claws come out, that wicked mind of hers sharp even in anger. It was an intoxicating feeling, to be the one person most capable of making Nesta Archeron let go of her infamous ironclad control.

(It was the same in many aspects of their lives together as well – taking her to bed was sometimes like going to battle, a thing of both clever strategy and blind instinct. And, more often than not, he awoke the next morning feeling distinctly sore.)

Of course, there were downsides to getting Nesta annoyed at him. Namely, the fact that she’d started to relegate him to the couch downstairs, locking him from their bedroom. It wasn’t enough to keep him out, naturally – after all, the lock was but a flimsy thing and the windows of the bedroom were always open for him to fly in and out of… but Cassian would never force his way in. He might like to push Nesta out of her comfort zone, to make her bare that wonderfully fierce heart she so artfully hid away, but he would never want to do her any harm. He would never want to _force_ something with her. Even the mere thought made him feel queasy.

So, when he went to their bedroom tonight only to find the door firmly shut, Cassian simply let out a sigh before trudging back downstairs. He should have expected this really, considering his pig-headed stubbornness had caused her to actually storm off earlier, wearing an utterly thunderous expression. But, in all honesty, Cassian couldn’t even remember what exactly he’d said to her to make her so angry. Nesta and he had been bickering most of the morning, full of biting comments. Perhaps something he said had hit to close to home. (Though, really, a part of Cassian had felt oddly vindicated that Nesta had been the one to run off and stew in her anger – it was usually him that had to walk away and cool down. Because, as much as Cassian had a talent for pissing Nesta off, she had just the same talent with him.)

(But Cassian wouldn’t change that for the world. Their relationship was as imperfect as relationships could get, but it was _theirs_.) 

Cassian tried his best to settle comfortably in the biggest couch they owned but unfortunately it wasn’t made for a full-sized (or over-sized, according to the Nesta) Illyrian male to be sleeping in. Eventually though, he managed to get some rest, knees slightly bent to accommodate his height while his left wing was slightly crushed against the backrest so he wouldn’t roll off in the middle of the night.

He was just drifting off again when he heard light footsteps head his way. A familiar, tantalizing scent filled the air. Cassian kept his eyes resolutely closed, even as the footsteps stopped right in front of the couch. Petty perhaps, but he was uncomfortable and she well knew it, being the very instrument of his current predicament.

Nesta hesitated at his side, her hand hovering over the bare skin of his shoulder. It was her obvious uncertainty that caused Cassian to finally open his eyes. Nesta was so rarely _hesitant_ , certainly not when she wanted something from him. There were moments though, when her youth and inexperience shone through. Like now.

She was standing over him in complete stillness, though her entire frame spoke of just how tense she was. There were dark shadows under her eyes – the kind she only got when her sleep was plagued with nightmares. Her expression had lost the severe edges that covered it during the day; almost soft and _yearning_. She was silent as she watched him with hooded eyes, struggling to ask for what she wanted, needed.

But Cassian already knew.

_Comfort_. That’s what she wanted. _Comfort_.

Cassian couldn’t help but soften, then. (So many people forgot about the woman underneath the sharp words and armor. Even he was guilty of it sometimes. But he hoped to never turn away when she wordlessly asked for affection.)

Without another thought, he reached out to her, running his fingers down the soft skin of her arm until his hand could entangle with hers. Something like relief crossed her face. She allowed him to tug her closer and took his unspoken invitation to join him on the couch. She sat down next to him, laying half on top of him, pressing herself into his chest until his arms came to surround her.

Cassian shifted slightly, trying in vain to get them both to fit on the blasted couch. Nesta just sighed, muttering something about winged idiots, before getting back up – only to stretch one leg over him so she straddled him. She then once again settled herself against his chest, her body entirely covering his. (Well, as much as someone who stood nearly a foot shorter than him _could_ cover him. Nesta was still a slight thing, despite the sheer presence she exuded.)

He felt her body relax over him, her forehead fitting perfectly into the crook of his neck, one hand tracing the pattern of his Illyrian tattoos while the other snuck between his arm and torso in a faux embrace. The fingers running down his chest paused momentarily on one of the many scars that littered him, before running even more softly, even more carefully, over that particular patch of damaged skin. The scar that Nesta was paying such close attention to was one he’d received during the war with Hybern and suddenly Cassian knew exactly what Nesta’s nightmares had been about.

Cassian’s arms tightened around Nesta. Cauldron, he would never regret battling against Hybern… but he would forever regret the terror that Nesta had experienced on his behalf. He _hated_ to be the cause of her misery. Despite his own inner turmoil, he proceeded to stroke soothing circles down Nesta’s back, relieved to feel her relax further into him, all that tension melting away, terror giving way to peaceful comfort.

Cassian would be perfectly content to act as Nesta’s glorified pillow (or considering the size of him compared to her, glorified _bed_ ) for the rest of eternity, if only to help her through the nightmares that haunted her every step.

They breathed in tandem and he couldn’t help but turn his head to press a kiss into her hair. Nesta hummed at that, her breath tickling his throat. Normally having Nesta’s body so completely against his would lead to his favorite kind of sport, but this moment brought warmth of a different kind entirely. Cassian had never really understood craving this kind of innocent embrace until he met the woman in his arms.

“I think we might fit better upstairs,” he whispered after a long while, keenly aware of their precarious position even as he settled more deeply into the couch, shifting Nesta with him.

Her voice was endearingly sleepy. “Later. This is fine.”

Cassian couldn’t stop the breathy chuckle that escaped him, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. “As my mate commands,” he said.

The bond between them, the bond that had taken them so long to accept, that still amazed him every single day, went taut with approval and pleasure. And then it went quiet altogether as Nesta drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Cassian followed not too long after, though only allowing himself to close his eyes after her reached out to grab one of the thick, woolen blankets they kept in the sitting room, spreading it over them both. 

When he awoke the next morning, his body was completely numb, his legs painfully cramped... but his mate was still asleep on his chest, her fingers curled against the scar that caused her to seek him out in the first place. And Cassian found that there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be.

So he wrapped his hand around Nesta’s, holding it tight against his chest, and stayed as still as he could.


	7. Of Flower Crowns (Elriel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep it's yet another elriel drabble. Inspired by all of the flower crown headcanons floating around tumblr. As it says on the tin.

The garden had been a sanctuary for Azriel and Elain since the very start of their relationship, back when they had been nothing more than tentative friends thrown together in a time of need. But even then, Azriel had always enjoyed being able to sit on one of the many benches, wings out as he quietly watched Elain tend to the blooming flowers. It was a still, soothing peace – one that he had often yearned for in his long existence, but rarely attained. His friends were a rowdy bunch after all, and the world was forever a dangerous place; far too dangerous to allow him any measure of rest.

But Elain, lovely Elain… she could calm Azriel down like no other and yet could also set him all ablaze with a single touch. (She was shy and sweet, no doubt, but underneath all of that careful poise, underneath all of the ingrained manners and etiquette, was a fiercely passionate heart. She was truly a wondrous thing to behold, in every aspect of life.)

As their relationship progressed from friendship into something else entirely, they spent more and more of their time in the garden of the house she kept with her sisters. Azriel treasured the moments they had together amidst the carefully manicured plants… Like when he would be lounging on his usual bench, eyes closed against the bright sun, until Elain would suddenly be at his side, a small smile tugging at berry-colored lips. She’d settle softly next to him without out a word, her body half on top of his so they could both fit on the bench’s narrow iron frame.

There was just nothing quite like the sheer warmth of those moments. He hoped the memories of them would forever stay clear in his mind, that even decades, _centuries_ from now, he would remember the feeling of Elain Archeron lying atop his chest, her head tucked into the crook of his neck as he ran his fingers through soft, soft hair.

The first time she’d done it, laid with him like that, she’d been so hesitant, afraid of making the wrong move, of scaring him off… afraid of asking for what she truly wanted after she’d had her heart so brutally broken. But when Azriel had opened his eyes to find her standing nervously in front of his bench, her hand half raised towards him, he had only reached out and tugged her onto him. He could bear her weight easily, and would gladly do so for as long as she wished. Elain, for her part, had worn a soft smile as she slowly relaxed into his body, her cheeks flushed with color. There was no embarrassment in her countenance, however, not with Azriel.

So, yes, their time in the garden was precious. It was a place so wholly peaceful that even Azriel, who lived the majority of his life wreathed in shadows, who greeted pain as an old friend, could not help but bask in it. It was also the only place that seemed to ease the visions that so often plagued Elain. Though it did not happen nearly as often as it once had, there were still days where her mind was so full of the threads of their futures that she could barely _think_. Days where Azriel could do nothing more than _be_ there and listen to the soft murmurings of futures he could barely decipher, watching over the world around them as Elain’s eyes remained clouded and sightless.

There was nothing else he could do… but bring her into their favorite sanctuary. The peace of the garden helped to rein in her visions, the quiet buzz of life around them giving her strength. It was the familiarity, Azriel thought, that helped her most; the one tie apart from her sisters that she continued to have to her former mortal life.

Today was another bad day. Azriel had awoken to Elain’s feverish mutterings, had tried to calm her in his usual way (soft hands stroking down her sides, kisses pressed to her shoulders as he tried to bring her back into the present). When that didn’t work, he immediately wrapped a shawl around Elain’s shoulders (modest even in immortality, Azriel knew she be humiliated if she woke to find herself in nothing but her thin night gown) and spared a brief moment to pull on some pants, forgoing a shirt in his urgency. He lifted Elain gently, holding her tight to his bare chest as he walked them down into the ever-peaceful garden.

Instead of heading to their bench, however, he sat amidst the grass, Elain laying against him in the v of his legs. He knew that she would come back faster down here, amidst the product of all her hard work, the flowers rustling in a gentle breeze. So Azriel sat, keeping his arms around the seer as a reminder that he was there, but loose enough that she didn’t feel locked in. (It was hard for her, when her body was here with him, but her mind elsewhere. She was often panicked when she came back.) 

Azriel sat and he did what he did best. He _listened_. His wings were a shelter around them, the riddles of Elain’s visions contained within as she muttered them to him. Azriel memorized them all, catalogued them for later. He was the spymaster after all, even on days like these.

Slowly, slowly he felt Elain return from wherever she’d been. He only relaxed fully when she crawled away from him though, her hands going into the flowers all around them. Her mind was still half in the future, eyes slightly glazed, but she kept her hands busy, using the task in front of her to regain control. Azriel watched as she methodically picked flowers, weaving them together with a kind of artistry that all of the Archeron sisters, even Nesta, seemed to possess.

He stayed carefully silent as he leaned back onto his elbows, his attention never wavering from Elain. She looked so heart-achingly beautiful in the dawn light, soft and gentle but with that innate strength of hers shining through as she slowly mastered her powers.

And then she finally, _finally_ blinked. Her eyes were clear as they gazed at him. Blessedly _lucid_.

“There she is,” he said softly, proudly.

Elain immediately smiled, even through her exhaustion and pain. She crawled back into his embrace, wrapped loose arms around his shoulders as she ducked her forehead against his. Her eyes closed. “Hello,” she said, her voice filled with relief. 

Azriel’s hand went under her hair to rest on the back of her neck. “Hello,” he responded in kind.

(There would be time to question her about the visions later. She deserved a little bit of peace first. She always did. Azriel would have given everything he had, if only he could continue to give Elain Archeron the peace she deserved.)

She shifted back a bit from him, her arms falling into her lap as she looked at the flowery creation she held in one hand. Her fingers trailed over the red and pink petals. 

“What’s that?” he asked.

A mischievous glint lit in Elain’s tired eyes. “It’s for you.” She crooked a finger at him, gesturing for him to duck forward.

He did so. And then Elain reached up placed the flowers atop his head, hands almost benevolent as she settled them in his hair. Azriel blinked in surprise. A crown. She’d made him a crown. He felt something like heat fly to his cheeks.

“I’m not entirely sure a spy like me is fit to wear a crown,” Azriel finally managed to reply, sardonic.

Elain watched him for a moment, her fingers tracing over the whorls of the Illyrian tattoos that covered his shoulders. (Their design was unlike those of his brothers – _these_ swirls looked like smoke and mist and shadow.) Finally, she looked up to meet his burning gaze. “You’re much more than just a spy, Azriel,” she said in a soft voice that left no room for argument. “And you deserve more than just a crown.”

He had to swallow past the emotion in his throat when she took one of his hands in hers, kissing the inside of his scarred palm without fear or revulsion.

“Regardless, I think something’s missing here,” Azriel told her after a pause, reaching out to pick a pretty white flower with his free hand. He put it gently behind her ear, tucking her hair around it. “There. Now we match.”

Elain responded with rosy cheeks and a smile… and then by throwing her arms around him again, pressing kisses to his jaw. She was always so beautifully tactile with him, especially after a vision. He buried his head in her neck for a long moment, wanting to just breathe her in. Her arms tightened around him at that, fingers running through the hair at the nape of his neck. Azriel held on long enough to be surrounded by nothing but Elain, by her comforting scent.

When he reluctantly loosened his hold, she didn’t go far, only placing her forehead against his. This time she kept her eyes open though, and he would had to be blind not to see the love and adoration and _want_ shining there.

“Hello,” he said again, his mouth mere inches from hers, his voice rough.

“Hello,” she replied, breathless.

Azriel’s eyes flicked down to her lips for the briefest moment. “I’m going to have to kiss you now.” 

Elain smiled, a thing so bright it was almost painful. “If you insist.”

And he did. After all, how could he not? It was _Elain_.


	8. A Necessary Conversation (Feyre + Nesta)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble was requested by the always wonderful babyvfan, who wanted to see Nesta and Feyre talking about everything that happened between them. I took quite a lot of time thinking about how I was going to do this one, so I'm a bit nervous about the finished piece. I hope you all enjoy it though! Also, this one isn't strictly fluff, but it does have a reasonably fluffy ending so I decided to include it in this collection anyways ;)

It started again in the library, this long overdue conversation of theirs. Feyre wasn’t sure how she always ended up here for this, but she supposed it was something in the air here. They were surrounded by so many books and scrolls, by so much knowledge and wisdom and learning. Books were the keys to entirely different worlds, as well as their own. They were a weapon in their own right and demanded respect. Which, she supposed, was a rare thing outside of Elain that both Feyre and Nesta agreed on. 

And there was serenity here – so much so that it could bring temporary peace between even her and Nesta. Feyre had even managed to pull a snort of laughter out of her sister; something so rare that Feyre could count the number of times that happened on one hand.

But when the laughter died and silence reined, something in Feyre’s chest clenched. The realization that this peace between them wouldn’t last hit her hard. No matter what progress she made with Nesta, they were still so _tense_ around each other. One wrong word would shatter whatever laughter they ever shared. And Nesta… Nesta had been so cold to her before, when they had both been mortals. Cold and unloving and _unkind_.

Feyre wanted to know why. She _needed_ to know why. Why had Nesta _hated_ Feyre as much as she _loved_ Elain?

They were quiet as they stood side-by-side by one of the many bookshelves. Feyre was hardly paying attention to the spines in front of her. Finally, she could stand it no more. She needed to know, she needed closure on this old chapter of her life if she was ever going to fully move on with the next ones.

The word – the question – was ripped out of Feyre. “ _Why_?”

Nesta looked at her, silent, standing completely still as she waited for Feyre to elaborate.

“I just want to understand, Nesta. Why did you treat me as you did when we were in the Mortal Lands? Why did you push everyone but Elain away?”

_Why do you love Elain more than me?_

_Why did you hate me?_  

Nesta remained quiet for a long moment, expression as closed off as ever… but not as severe as it used to be. (She was so much _softer_ these days, more approachable. Tempered by Cassian and his constant, accepting love.)

Finally, she spoke. “Elain always needed me. You didn't.”

“But that isn’t a reason!” Feyre exploded, heart aching something fierce. “Why should me not needing you be a reason for you to be so, so… cruel!”

_And I did need you. I did._

Nesta look almost sad under the weight of Feyre’s anger. But she did not back down, mouth set in a determined line. 

“Why, Nesta? I just need you to tell me _why_ ,” Feyre knew she sounded desperate… but even now, years later, those cruel words they’d shouted at one another haunted her. She could hold her tongue no longer. “Why did you love Elain and not me? Why did you put me down when you could have _helped_ me?” 

Nesta closed her eyes as she took a deep, steadying breath. “Love doesn’t come easily for me,” she admitted, keeping her gaze firmly away from Feyre, “Or, at least, showing it. But, Elain has always made it simpler for me, for everyone – that’s who she is. She’s always been the best of us all. You can’t help but love her. And, like I said, she needed me. She _needed_ me to protect her. Even when you were a toddler, you didn’t seem to need or want me. Which was fine, I suppose. I always thought that’s who _you_ were. Independent. Fierce.” A twitch of a smile. “Stubborn.” 

Feyre bit her lip, her chest aching with affection and pain and so many other things. But she continued listening, knew that if she interrupted, Nesta would likely never open up like this again.

Nesta looked down at her hands, voice soft and yet so full of iron and steel. “But, you… you were always so much like me, Feyre,” she said. “Only you had Elain’s compassion on top; though a more tempered version, perhaps. Even with that… you were always a reflection of me. Sometimes it seemed you truly _were_ me. But better. So much better. You kept fighting where I couldn’t. You kept living where I wouldn't.”

_Nesta…_

“And I was so _angry_ , Feyre. At Father for failing us. At Mother for abandoning us. And… and at you for still fighting, for still going, when I just wanted everything around us to _burn_. I wanted it all gone, I wanted fire and ashes… And even then, you _kept_ _fighting_.”

Finally, her oldest sister, her sister who seemed to be both Cauldron-blessed and Cauldron-cursed in turns, faced her fully. Whatever severity was left in her devastatingly beautiful face was gone, replaced with nothing but open vulnerability. Something in Feyre wanted to reach out, but she kept still. _This is not just about me. It’s about Nesta, as well. It’s about all of us Archerons._

“You reminded me of _my_ weaknesses, of _my_ failures. And it only made me angrier. I was furious, to my bones, because you were _right_. Because, most of all, I was angry at myself. For not being like _you_.” 

Feyre couldn’t stop herself from taking a step forward. “Nesta–” 

She held up a hand, as if needing this distance between them just a moment longer. “I could never be angry with Elain, not like that. She’s so different from you and I, so gentle, so good. Easy to love. She _needed_ me,” she repeated, though whether it was to Feyre or herself was unclear. “The only good thing my anger ever served, back then, was in protecting her. And she never challenged me, she never fought me. She never did like the conflict. But Feyre, you did – even despite it all, you fought. You challenged me, forced me to see the things I tried to deny. And, despite my behavior, I am grateful for that. You held up a mirror when no one else dared.”

_A reflection of me,_ Feyre thought with sad realization. It made her think of the ouroboros. Of the strength it took to see oneself as you truly were. But she could not hold the thought for long when Nesta took a deliberate step towards her. Feyre watched her carefully, fighting the urge to fidget like a small child under that heavy gaze.

“Elain might be the best of us, but _you_ are by far the strongest. A part of me has always been jealous of that. I’ll admit, it also made my words sharper,” her sister told her.

“ _Nesta_ –” Feyre said again, but she was waved off.

And then Nesta suddenly took Feyre’s face between her hands, ever so gently. And Feyre had never known anything like it, not from Nesta. So she froze under the touch and looked at that eldest Archeron with wide eyes, trembling the slightest bit.

Nesta smiled sadly, even as her thumbs stroked soothingly over Feyre’s cheekbones. “But Feyre. You are my _sister_. Through it all, you are my sister. And nothing, _nothing_ , is more important to me than family.”

Feyre knew then, knew what Nesta was trying to say. ‘You are my sister.’ _I’m sorry_. ‘Through it all, you are my sister.’ _I’m so sorry._ ‘Nothing is more important to me than family.’ _I love you._

_I_ love _you_. 

And Feyre was surprised to know that, for now, it was enough. That this conversation and this wordless admission had finally started a healing process that was long overdue. 

So, with a thick voice, all she said was –

“And you are mine. You are _my_ sister and you are of my Court. Know that you will always have a place here with me if you want it. No matter what, Nesta. _No matter what_.”

And while those were the words she said aloud, what it really meant was _I forgive you_. Or at least, she was on the way to. Open, festered wounds do no heal overnight. But a soothing hand could work wonders. Forgiveness would come in time. 

(Besides, the words meant something else as well, something that would always remain true. _I love you too._ )

Nesta held on to her for a moment longer, before she finally let go, clearing her throat. She turned back to the books, clearly dismissing any more conversation. Feyre noticed there was suspicious gleam in her sister’s eyes however, so she didn’t walk away, not yet. Instead, she stood next to Nesta, a silent companion. Together, they browsed through books in peace.

And when they finally left the library, that peace actually lasted. At least for a little while.


	9. A Childish Side (Nessian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm breaking my rules a little bit here because this drabble is actually set during ACOWAR and not after, but I couldn't help but want to post it in this collection. So maybe just consider this a flashback chapter?
> 
> This was written for an anonymous prompt I got on tumblr. Just a cute little piece where Nesta watches Cassian play with some kids. Enjoy!

When she first noticed him out in the distance, she thought she must have been dreaming. After all, what would Cassian – general of the vast armies of the Night Court – be doing playing around with children? But that’s what he was doing, standing about with wings spread out wide, a giggling child held over each shoulder as he pretended to be straining under their weight. A circle of younglings – High fae and low alike, with a few tiny Illyrians in the mix – watched on with unmitigated pleasure, their youthful faces glowing with their joy.

Nesta could hardly believe her eyes. Especially when Cassian picked swung a third child into his arms and then proceeded to fall comically to the floor, making all the children laugh raucously. He spent a few moments on the ground even as many of the children finally wandered off, simple shirt and pants no doubt becoming filthy. Not that he cared, however, not when he got back to his feet only to have shy Illyrian girl (one of the few remaining younglings) reach out as if to touch the edge of those great, powerful wings.

The little girl pulled back at the last moment, however, her own wings falling ungainly to the ground – as if no one had ever taught her the proper use of them. Cassian, though, was unfailingly observant; more so than one might expect (Nesta certainly hadn’t thought him capable of it, at first glance). He ducked closer to the child and whispered something to her. The girl smiled hugely, eyes shining with wonder as she closed her little hand around the very edge of his wing. Cassian kept carefully still under her hands, patient as the girl compared their wings. She said something that made the bigger (absolutely _huge_ ) Illyrian let out a booming laugh, before he swooped and lifted the girl onto his shoulders. He spread his wings out wide again (Nesta tried not to think about what Amren and Feyre had told her about Illyrian wingspans) and the girl followed suit, a look of complete concentration on her face.

It occurred to Nesta then, that Cassian was – in his own way – trying to teach the little girl.

This was a side Nesta had never imagined a seemingly arrogant, battle-proven warrior like Cassian would have. In all honesty, her first impression of the Illyrian male had been that he was a simple, bloodthirsty brute, looking for nothing more than the shallow pleasures her body might offer him. However, it seemed there might be more to him than that.

 _But then, you already knew that, didn’t you,_ her mind whispered traitorously. Nesta ignored it with the kind of vicious, unforgiving determination that she was known for. 

Besides, why _should_ it matter to her that Cassian was good with children?

The answer was it _shouldn’t_. It shouldn’t.

Then why did it?

(She knew the answer to that, of course, even buried deep, deep within as it was. The answer stemmed from the fact that once, when she’d been a little girl herself and before all of the bitter realities of her mortal life had set in, she’d dreamt of a future a little like this. A future in which sights like this – a man playing happily with a child – was something she saw everyday in her own home. But that dream shattered the minute her mother died, the minute her father abandoned them to their own devices, his presence nothing more than a physical reminder of his failures. She’d _hoped_ once, hoped for a home and a husband and a child or two of her own… but that particular dream was long gone. Nesta had no use for it now. Nor would she ever. Not again.)

Nesta finally ripped here eyes away from Cassian and his new friend. She started walking down the streets of Velaris again – as she was meant to be doing. Really, she shouldn’t have stopped at all. Perhaps it was best to just ignore this whole incident. She would force herself to put it out of her mind. She would make herself believe that it didn’t matter that Cassian – who watched _her_ so closely, who needled at her and made her feel things she hadn’t thought herself capable of – could show such innocent kindness.

(Nesta knew the power of willful ignorance all too well; both the good and the bad. But, like she did with so many things, she would use it to her advantage.)

Sadly, even her best-laid plans managed to get waylaid by the utter persistence of this particular Illyrian male – let alone this half-brained one. Despite her determination to ignore him, she’d only made it a few steps before she heard him catching up to her and then his annoyingly familiar voice talking at her. 

“You know, many people consider it impolite to watch someone without their knowledge,” Cassian said, with _far_ too much pleasure. 

Nesta whirled to face him, eyes already narrowed into a spiteful glare. “And what would _you_ know of politeness?” _Besides,_ she thought but did not want to say, _I am not the only one who watches others without their permission._

Cassian simply shrugged, large arms crossing over an equally large chest. Those great wings that attracted all the children were neatly folded away, the little girl nowhere in sight. “Nothing, I suppose. But I _do_ know how to recognize interest from a beautiful female.” There was a spark of challenge shining in his hazel eyes.

“Clearly, your skills are lacking in that regard,” Nesta mocked with more ferocity than necessary. “There is no interest from me. And nothing _you_ do could tempt _me_.” 

 _Liar_ , her mind whispered in that same mocking tone, _filthy, unjust liar._

Cassian seemed to recognize the liar in her as well, prowling closer. “ _I_ think there is more interest than you are willing to admit.”

“You might be good with children, Cassian, but you certainly have a lot to learn about the fairer sex.”

His gaze turned triumphant, lips pulled into a pleased smirk. “Was there a _compliment_ hidden in that barb?”

 _Gods damn this man and his overblown ego._ “It was a simple statement of fact.”

“Is that so? Or is it admiration I see under that cold mask of yours?” He stepped even closer and Nesta was momentarily surprised by her back hitting the wall of the alleyway they’d somehow managed to find themselves ensconced in.

Nesta tried to calm the sudden racing of blood. There was something about the scent of him that always sent her usually sharp mind into a tailspin. But she forced it down (like always), instead lifting her chin proudly. “Who says I would ever deign to wear a mask? I am wholly as I seem. I just don’t appreciate egotistical, overgrown _bats_ forcing their attention on me.”

Cassian examined her for a long, long moment, for once not rising to the bait. (He was really getting far to used to their bickering.) He brought one hand to the wall behind her and ducked his head down, until their faces were mere inches apart. He was uncharacteristically serious when he finally spoke.

“I think there is much more to you, Nesta Archeron, than you let anyone, even yourself, see,” he said, voice low. “And I think you enjoy this little game of ours.”

It wasn’t an accusation exactly, but Nesta glared all the same, staunchly ignoring the heat in her belly. “I don’t play games.”

Cassian’s response was to once again push at the unspoken boundaries between them. He bent his head even closer, his lips scraping tantalizingly against the shell of her ear. “Don’t you?”

Nesta couldn’t help but inhale sharply, a shiver of _something_ shooting down her spine. She could feel Cassian’s chuckle against the bare skin of her craned neck, could feel the air between them grow heavy.

“It seems I don’t have that much to learn about the fairer sex after all,” he said, teeth grazing the edge of her ear.

Fiery irritation rose through Nesta at that comment and at his actions (despite the rapid beating of her heart and the ever coiling pool in her belly). She was about snap at him with all the considerable anger in her heart when Cassian stepped back abruptly… and then walked away, not giving her a chance to get the final word.

 _Gods damn him_ , she thought again – but it wasn’t heated like it was before. No, something in Nesta admired his daring. But it was only a very small something. The rest of her was fuming. Fuming because, despite her verbal resistance to this game of theirs, she had _lost_ this particular round. 

And Nesta was nothing if not prideful. How could she not be, when for so long her pride had been her crutch and her guidance both? 

That very same pride would not stand to let her lose again to _Cassian_ , gentle giant wrapped in the package of an Illyrian warrior or no.

So she would win the next time. She would _win_.

(And she did. In more ways than one, she did. It came at the price of the game almost ending entirely, it came at the price of near-death and screaming his name and protecting him with everything in her… nonetheless, she won. And, in a strange twist of fate, so did Cassian.)

(But that’s another story.)


	10. Of Comforting Hands (Elriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an anonymous prompt I got on tumblr - just a little piece about Elain helping Azriel work through some stuff. This one also relates directly to the first drabble I posted. Enjoy ;)

He dreamt of fire, of flames scorching a path up small, vulnerable hands. He dreamt of brothers laughing cruelly, of the smell of burnt flesh, of screaming he barely recognized as his own. The pain was immense, even in this twisted version of reality, the fire biting into his hands with the kind of mindless viciousness that nature often wrought.

Cauldron, it hurt, it hurt, _it hurt_ and he was screaming for help, crying out for it, but no one came, _no one came_. Fingers dug into his shoulders and arms, holding him down so he that he couldn’t move back from the fire. He struggled with all his might but his wings, useless things, were tied to his body and his legs were chained and even if he were free, his brothers were so big, how was he supposed to fight them and _win_?

Azriel screamed and screamed and screamed.

In his true memories, his screams had finally gotten loud enough to attract a wayward servant. But in his dreams, in his nightmares, his screaming did nothing but make his brothers laugh harder, make their hold tighter as the fire continued to climb up his blistering, melting skin. 

The fire was almost at his face now, the smoke in the room thick and black and choking him even as his body burned to the bone. He wanted it to end, please he just wanted it to _end_.

_Make it stop_. _Stop. Stop. Please–_  

And then there was a blissfully familiar voice – so gentle, so different from the screams of his nightmares.

“Azriel,” the voice said, sweet-sounding but rife with worry, “Azriel, wake up. It’s a nightmare.” 

The fire wasn’t stopping, it wasn’t slowing. It was going to burn him _alive_ –

“ _Wake_. _Up_.”

Azriel sat up with a wild, near-silent gasp, his eyes opening to the calm serenity of his bedroom. He barely managed to stop his shadows bursting from him, the sheer panic almost enough to make him lose control. He tried to calm his thundering heart, tried to stop the shaking of his scarred hands, but the nightmare was still right there, living on his mottled skin. It was getting hard to breathe.

“Azriel?” Elain asked at his side, delicate hands hovering over him.

_Elain. Lovely Elain. Mother above, I wish she didn’t have to see me like this._ She didn’t deserve to be stuck with someone so utterly broken inside, not after all of her own struggles. He would never forgive himself for the first time she woke him mid-night terror, when he’d almost hurt her in his delirium. The nightmare he’d had that night had been particularly bad… because worse were the nightmares where the fire wasn’t burning him, where it burned Rhys or Cassian or Mor or Feyre… or Elain. Mother and Cauldron both, what he would give to never see those images in his head ever again. What he would give to protect her, to protect all of them, from the darkness he very literally brought everywhere with him.

(And yet he couldn’t find it in himself to push her away now... or ever. His brothers were right, after all. He _was_ weak.)

“Just – give me a moment,” Azriel finally managed to say with a shuddering breath. He turned so his legs were hanging off the bed, letting his head fall into hands for a long moment (he didn’t have to keep looking at them like this). His eyes stung with unshed tears.

And he couldn’t – he couldn’t breathe properly.

“Oh _Azriel_ ,” Elain said, cool fingers finally making contact with him. One hand curled around the back of his neck, thumb gentle against the hinge of his jaw, while the other took hold of his trembling bicep. She didn’t let go for even a moment as she climbed closer to him, until she was plastered against his side, leaning her forehead against his temple.

“Breathe with me,” she whispered, her fingers ever so soft as they traced circles into his sweat-glistened skin.

Azriel gulped in one breath. Then another. And another. And another… until he felt his chest rise and fall in time with Elain’s. Something like relief shuddered its way through him. It hadn’t been so bad this time. 

He lifted his head, shocked to find his cheeks wet. Elain gazed at him with heavy eyes, but a small, proud smile played at her lips. She took his face in between her hands, thumbing away the only physical evidence of his nightmares. Slowly, so slowly, she pulled him down to her, placing a soft, soft kiss on his forehead.

Azriel felt something desperate release in his chest and suddenly couldn’t keep his scarred hands away from her anymore. He wrapped both his arms around Elain’s slight body, pulling her into his lap, her legs dangling between his. Elain wrapped her own arms around Azriel’s neck as he bent down to rest his head against her chest, his ear over her heart. Her fingers combed through his sleep-mussed hair as she hummed faintly under breath, rocking slowly back and forth with him.

She was so small in his embrace, so slight compared to his bulk, but Azriel felt completely wrapped in her, completely surrounded by her soothing, familiar scent. He found his fingers tangling in her thin nightdress, his eyes gradually closing. Elain’s arms tightened around him, her humming only pausing so she could kiss the top of his head.

Now was not the time for talk, they both knew. That could come tomorrow, along with everything else. For now, all he wanted to do was sit here, wrapped in Elain, the steady thump of her heartbeat and that soft humming of hers forever soothing him.

And, when Elain was plagued by visions, when her own sleep became plagued by nightmares, Azriel would do the exact same for her. He would sit with her and soothe her and he would wait. He would always wait for her to be ready.

As she would for him.


	11. A Different Fate (Elriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand I'm back again with the elriel. This one was inspired by some beautiful pregnancy headcanons I found on tumblr written by fck-tamlin and sparkleywonderful. Hope you enjoy! I promise the next will not be elriel haha.
> 
> Also, small bit of news! I plan on writing only four more drabbles for this series after this chapter - this is simply due to time constraints. Hope you all don't mind! Thanks for sticking with me <3

Elain knew the pain of heartbreak well. She’d suffered through the loss of a mother and a father. She’d lost a mortal life. She knew what it was to lose love.

But this… this pain was another thing entirely. Nothing could quite explain _this_ kind of heartbreak. Her chest felt like it had been cleaved open, her entire body numb with realization. It was one thing to lose something she’d already had… but to never even have it in the first place?

By the Cauldron, it _hurt_. 

She should’ve known. She _should’ve known_. There had been nothing in their future. Even when she’d first gotten her visions, she’d seen her sisters grow big with children. She’d seen Feyre glow with her pregnancy, Rhysand always close at hand. She’d seen Nesta grumble through hers and bicker with Cassian for causing her so much discomfort. (Though their hands were always linked through this, a show of unity for all – including for their unborn child. _Both_ her sisters hid surprisingly soft sides.) 

But she’d seen nothing of pregnancy or children in her and Azriel’s future. There would be no babies with Azriel’s beautiful wings and her pointed ears. There would be no brood of children running wild around them, their laughter helping to heal their parents’ oldest wounds.

Mother above, _she should’ve known._ After all, both her sisters now had children and yet Elain and Azriel had been trying for longer than both of them combined with nothing to show for it. And the future, always open to her, had been suspiciously blank in just this one regard. 

Their visit to the healers only confirmed what Elain and Azriel had begun to suspect. 

 _Incompatible_. The word rang in her ears. They were incompatible. Infertile. Barren.

And so Elain’s heart – the heart that had ached for children and _family_ ever since she was little girl – broke. 

And Azriel, he was just as distraught and blamed himself. He thought it was his fault – after all, _he_ wasn’t the mate the Cauldron had chosen for her. The worst part of it was that, in a way, he wasn’t wrong. They _were_ incompatible in this base sense… But she and Lucien wouldn’t have been, not in terms of children. 

Still, that was neither here nor there. That future was long gone. Because when Elain pictured _home_ , she saw wings wrapped protectively around her and felt scarred hands holding her tightly. She saw smiles wreathed in shadows and heard a gentle, patient voice coaxing her through her every vision.

She saw Azriel, every part of him, good and bad – her constant, loving companion throughout their eternity.

So even in the midst of her heartbreak, of her grief, she held on tight to him. She would not let this break them apart. Neither, she was sure, would he.

And they didn’t. There were hard days of course, when their house was too empty and when the nursery they’d so lovingly prepared years before seemed to taunt them. They had each other, however, and they had all their nieces and nephews to fill their hearts. 

Feyre and Rhys’ son was first – a fickle boy with all the sass of his parents combined, who always drifted to Elain’s soothing presence. Feyre and Rhys’ daughter was quiet in comparison, but could throw a tantrum like no other. She’d been a fussy baby as well, though that was quickly solved with Azriel’s magic touch – Cassian laughingly called his Illyrian brother the baby whisperer. Elain’s brother-in-law quickly stopped laughing when his own twins were born, however, especially when it seemed that Azriel was the only one who could keep both babies calm at the same time. 

Soon enough her and Azriel’s house became the go-to place for all their nieces and nephews, the children always happy to spend time with their favorite aunt and uncle. Despite not being the future she’d always wanted, Elain found she was happy, content. She wouldn’t mind spending her forever like this, a guiding hand for a her sisters’ children and with Azriel – her husband and her dearest friend – always there with her.

No, that wouldn’t be a bad life at all. 

But then Azriel came back home one day with something that Elain had never seen in her visions. A baby. A little Illyrian boy with hazel eyes and a wrecked wing. Abandoned in the forest for his perceived imperfections. 

“They left him out there. They left him for the wolves… all because he isn’t like the rest of them,” Azriel explained, growling. He cradled the child with the utmost care, his eyes shadowed with anger and grief. But there was also hope in that gaze. Hope that Elain found echoed in her own heart. Hope that she thought long lost. Azriel raised his eyes to her. “They left him to die because they think he’s weak. But they never even gave him a chance. He needs a chance to live, to grow up and become strong… he deserves that much.”

Elain saw the pain of her husband’s past in his expression, in the protective way he held the baby. And when she turned her eyes to the little boy, to his deformed wing and his perfect baby cheeks, she _knew_. She felt it in her very bones.

“Then _we’ll_ be his chance. And he’ll be ours,” Elain said, feeling the rightness of it in her chest. She laid a hand on top of where Azriel’s lay on the boy’s little chest, leaning into his side as she peered down at the baby – their baby.

“He _is_ ours, isn’t he?” Azriel asked her, voice raw with hope. Elain could practically _see_ him falling in love with this little boy. 

She smiled. “Yes, he is. He’s our son.”

Azriel grinned back at her, his entire face alight with his joy. “Our son,” he repeated, almost dumb with happiness. “We have a _son_.”

As if he couldn't help himself, he cuddled their son closer, dropping a lingering kiss to his little forehead. Elain’s heart ached viscerally for her husband. _He never thought he’d have this._ Finally, Azriel looked back up at her, his eyes shining.

“I think it’s about time he met his mama, don’t you?”

Elain felt overcome with emotion, her throat thick with tears as Azriel handed her their son for the very first time. Her baby curled instinctively in her arms, slowly blinking open beautiful hazel eyes. “Hello there, baby,” Elain whispered, utterly awed. “I’m your mama. We’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

Her son cooed at her and then the future opened up with thousands of possibilities before her very eyes, visions flying past as if tied to the life she held so delicately. But there was one thread that Elain _yearned_ for. Because Elain saw their family in that thread… and it was not just built up of their friends and siblings and nieces and nephews. No, their house could be filled with the laughter of _their_ children. Not just this beautiful little boy in her arms – their son who Azriel would teach to fly despite the odds – but several others. She saw a little girl for them one day, with Illyrian wings and a wicked smile. She saw another girl, this one High Fae, her ears delicately pointed and bearing the scars of mistreatment on her back. And then she saw their last, a third girl who was neither High Fae nor Illyrian, but rather a so-called lesser fairy with skin that glowed like the stars. (Estelle, they’d call her, _star_.)

And their son would love all of his little sisters with the fierce loyalty he learned from his father and the gentle sweetness he learned from his mother. He would take to the skies with the oldest, help their second girl through her nightmares, and defend the youngest from all those who would call her ‘lesser’.

Elain saw the family of her future clearly for the very first time… tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks, unstoppable. She hugged her boy a little closer. He would have a beautiful life. She would make sure of it.

Eventually, Azriel’s soft voice brought her back to the present, back to the boy she was rocking gently.

“What should we call him?” he asked, coming to stand behind her and wrapping an arm around her waist. He ran finger down their son’s downy tuft of brown hair.

Elain leaned back into her husband and smiled. “Let’s name him Darien,” she said. “It means–”

“Gift,” Azriel whispered. “Yes. That sounds right. Darien.”

 _Our gift_.

Because, that’s what he was. A gift. One she would treasure for all eternity. And one day his sisters – Semira (who would fly faster than she would walk), Isa (whose scars would never batter down her strength), and Estelle (who would learn to be proud of her star-blessed skin) – would join them. But for now, for now, Elain simply held her son and leaned into the endless comfort of Azriel’s hands.


	12. A Vulnerable Side (Nessian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt I got from thebluemartini on tumblr. Probably the last Nessian drabble in this particular collection. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Also! Important note - you might have noticed that this story is now a part of a series. Well, what you'll find in the rest of this series are other ACOTAR one-shots/drabbles that didn't fit into this timeline or were too angsty for the fluffy theme. Check them out! I already posted an elriel one-shot that's another take of how they could get together ;)

They didn’t talk about it. The fact that she was afraid of water now. In fact, Nesta would have preferred that he had never even realized she had this fear in the first place. She hated that he so often saw at her most vulnerable, at her weakest… Nesta had never been an emotive person; even in immortality, she found she’d rather hide her true feelings (passionate and never-ending though they were) behind a carefully crafted mask of indifference. Back when she’d still been human, been mortal, her mask had given her _power_ … and that feeling of security stayed with her, despite the fact that she had _real_ power at her fingertips now.

(But beyond that, she loathed burdening Cassian with this. Loathed causing him even _more_ trouble, even more pain. Nesta had never considered someone such as Cassian would walk into her life and rearrange the order of it so completely. She hated him for it. And yet she also loved him for it.)

Sometimes Nesta also _hated_ that power though. How often had she wished her voice had mattered more as a human? How often had she wanted to _make_ others hear her? She had that power now, and more besides. But it was a power – a dark, wild creature – that she stole from the Cauldron… the very same Cauldron whose murky waters now haunted her every step. 

The fact of the matter was water frightened her. She’d never forget drowning in the black depths of the Cauldron, so soon after Elain (who had always been _everything_ to Nesta) had been sent in there to die or be reborn. She’d never forget water snaking into her mouth, her ears, her eyes, until she couldn’t escape it, not even as she thrashed as hard as she could. And she’d never forget the voice that had seemed to come from the blackness, that ancient, terrifying power that threatened to destroy her forever.

She’d won against it in the end, had torn some of its terrible power from its very _being_ and risen again into something entirely new. Nesta had earned her victory with nothing more than her pure, iron will.

But now… now she could barely stand the feel of water. Bathing was the worst of it. Every time she forced herself in the tub, her entire body locked up in helpless fear. And she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get air, her mind tricking her into thinking that the water was rising up, that it would drown her all over again.

It was pathetic. _She_ was pathetic.

_All of this power and I can’t even take a bath_.

That was how Cassian found out about it, actually. He’d walked into the bathroom one day, only to find Nesta unable to catch her breath as she soaked in shallow water, her frail, naked shoulders shaking. Her eyes had been far, far away, he’d told her, her pupils dilated in absolute, unforgiving terror. Cassian had tugged her out of the bath with out a thought, wrapping his body completely around hers until she’d finally felt safe enough to be pulled back to the present.

They hadn’t talked about it after. Nor any day since. Nesta was relieved about that – relieved that Cassian knew her well enough to let her gather herself in silence. Though not in solitude either. No, he’d made sure that he was close at hand any other time decided she couldn’t avoid the tub any longer. He didn’t come into the room though, seeming to know she wouldn’t have responded well to him seeing her like that again. She was ashamed of her weakness, ashamed that she could not seem to conquer this as she had the Cauldron. But, at the very least, Cassian’s presence just outside the door was a comfort.

And then… and then there was this.

She’d walked to the home she shared with Cassian slowly, the dread of the tub already preying on her under her skin. None of it showed on her face, of course. After all, Nesta had long ago learned to hide stupid fears like these – but no one could blame her for taking her time until she finally entered the bathing room. Only, when she finally did, there was no tub waiting to haunt her. There was no tub at all. Instead, in it’s place, stood another… _contraption_ entirely. The floor where the tub once stood was now tiled and surrounded by cloudy glass walls on two sides. Nesta found herself walking through the open entrance between them curiously, immediately seeing what she could only describe as a faucet now attached to the back wall a foot or so above her head.

Nesta blinked in surprise, her indifferent mask dropping completely, her fingers clenching in the soft material of the towel she had wrapped around her. Water would fall from that faucet, she realized dumbly, still staring at this new contraption. Water to _bathe_ with.

Her throat went tight as she finally understood what this meant. She wouldn’t feel enclosed by the tub any longer, wouldn’t feel like she would drown again at any second. She wouldn’t have to panic anytime she wanted to get clean. She wouldn’t have to feel so vulnerable and weak all the time, because of this stupid, stupid fear of hers.

Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence approach from behind, the heat of his chest warming her bare back as calloused hands gently dropped on her shoulders. 

“You did this,” Nesta told Cassian in a deceptively even voice.

He ran his thumbs over her skin, his voice a rumble behind her. “Yes,” he said.

Nesta could stop herself no longer, she twisted slightly so she could look at him and meet his hazel eyes, always so full of emotion. “You did this. For _me_?”

Cassian stared at her for a long moment. “We all have our wounds, Nesta. Physical or not, they shouldn’t have to be borne in silence… Nor should they have to be borne _alone_.” 

Her stuttered in her chest at the sheer sincerity of the statement, at the fact that he arranged all this for _her_ without her even realizing. Somehow Cassian had known how to help her without having to ask, without cloying her with questions that would only make her retreat. No one had ever done anything like this for her before. No one had known her well enough. 

“I don’t… I can’t…” Nesta grew frustrated as words escaped her, but Cassian just nodded, his fingers trailing a path down her arms.

“I understand,” he said. “Now come on.”

He walked around her, reaching to turn on the faucet until warm water very gently showered from it. Cassian gestured for her to go ahead but Nesta hesitated.

What if it didn’t matter _how_ she bathed? What if she still panicked at the feel of water on her skin? What if, after all Cassian had done for her, she still froze?

_I don’t want to fail him_ , she thought, _or myself_.

Cassian, as always seemed to be able to read her. He held out his hand to her. “Together?” he asked.

Nesta nodded, relieved, and took it, lacing their fingers tightly together. After relinquishing her towel, Cassian stripped as well as he could one-handed and even when he had to let go of her hand for a brief moment, he kept himself pressed against her, reassuring them both. Finally, he urged her forward slowly, his wings a cradle around her as held both of her hands from behind. 

Nesta couldn’t stop from squeezing his fingers as tightly as she could, her nerves getting to her, but when the water eventually hit them, she felt nothing but warm, pleasant comfort. She relaxed almost immediately under the spray – there was no inevitable feeling of drowning here, no, instead it was like standing under the most peaceful of waterfalls. Nesta’s thoughts remained blissfully clear, no crippling fear rising under her skin.

Cassian seemed to realize this but still he did not stop touching her for a moment. He held her ever so softly, her comfort and ease his sole intention. There was no _want_ in his touch right now, only love and patience and everything else that so often passed between them unspoken. (How had she ever thought _him_ a _brute_? Cassian could be boorish perhaps, but never a brute. No, he was far more than that, more than she deserved.)

Nesta turned so she could wrap herself completely in him, pressing her ear against his heartbeat, which thudded with a warrior’s steadiness as always. (Still, she had also noticed that it always jumped the slightest bit at her touch as well. The thought frightened and awed her in equal measure.) His skin was so warm against her, so _alive_ that she couldn’t get lost in her memories, even with the water beating at her back. 

“Thank you. Thank you for this,” she told him quietly, her voice muffled by his chest.

But Cassian’s arms tightened around her anyways, as if he couldn’t get close enough. “For you, Nesta, always,” he said. “ _Always_.”

She smiled into his skin and took the promise to heart. The sentiment was returned, of course, but she would tell him that later when the darkness of night and the softness of their bed gave her the courage to. For now, she let herself be coaxed further into the spray of the water, Cassian beginning the long process of soothing soap into her skin and hair, his touch a constant thing she knew she could always depend on.

He’d been right. She didn’t need to be alone to get through this. But then, she never really was. Not anymore.


	13. Of Wistful Dreams (Feysand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this drabble because I felt like Rhys' relationship with his mother and sister could have been more explored in the books. There is a direct reference to my other feysand drabble 'Of Hidden Talents' in this - kudos to any of you who spot it ;) This one starts a bit angsty but ends on a fluffy note. This will also be the last solely feysand drabble in this collection (but they definitely will be a focal point in the last drabble). Enjoy and let me know what you think!

She saw them sometimes in his dreams, when the unbreakable bond between them wasn’t quite so easy to block. Feyre always knew that Rhys’ mother and sister must have been beautiful, but nothing in her imagination could have compared to what she saw in his mind. Where his father always seemed to be shrouded in menacing shadow (so different from Azriel’s, Feyre noted), the women of his family always seemed to bring light and laughter. In the best of Rhys’ dreams, his mother wore a wide, wicked grin so like his own that Feyre sometimes had to do a double take. His sister’s smile, on the other hand, was a much softer thing, but still no less bright. She followed devotedly after her brother, half-running until a younger Rhys would swoop down and lift her onto his shoulders. Their mother was never far behind, laughing with them both, the sound as clear to Feyre as if she had been there herself.

The dreams were wistful, wishful things that Feyre felt honored to share. But she also saw how they haunted her mate in his waking hours. He had grieved for his blood family for many years… but he also had never had the chance to truly heal from their deaths, their murders. How could he have? He was known as the most powerful High Lord in history, but too often did his subjects, did the entirety of Prythian, forget that there was a soul as fragile as any other hiding underneath all that power.

And then there were the nights where the dreams became twisted, the light turning red as blood began to fill both Rhys’ and Feyre’s visions. The bodies of his mother, of his little sister, were almost unrecognizable by the time Rhys had found them, torn apart, matching midnight hair utterly soaked with the sheer amount of blood spilled. 

Often, it was the last thing Rhys saw before he woke, pulling Feyre out of sleep with him.

Once, after a particularly grueling night, when Feyre had Rhys wrapped tightly in her arms – a vain attempt to protect him from the dreams that would do him harm – he had admitted to her that he was terrified that one day that image of their wrecked bodies would be the only thing he would remember of them both. That all those beautiful images, all those memories that kept them alive in his mind, would fade with time, leaving only blood and death and loneliness. 

Feyre hadn’t been able to find anything to say in response back then. The only thing she’d been able to do was hold him tighter and run her fingers through _his_ midnight hair.

After weeks more of the dreams and nightmares both, however, an idea popped into her head in the form of a painting. Feyre knew what Rhys’ mother and sister looked like so well that she almost forgotten that there were no more physical reminders left of them – Rhys’ father had gone on a rampage at the loss of his mate, destroying all of her and their daughter’s possessions. Including what few images existed of them.

That very night, she began to put her plan in motion, wandering into the Rainbow to get what she needed. She spent the next few days gathering supplies, taking her time. Of all her past projects, none mattered so much as this one; she needed the perfect colors, she needed to do this right. 

Finally, she started. The process was painstakingly slow as she strived for perfection, but Feyre still found herself getting lost in the painting, in the vision of these women she wished she’d had the chance to meet.

The hardest part of the whole thing was keeping it from Rhys of course. Normally, he was such a big part of her art, always encouraging her, always ready to listen to her ramble on about it. But this time she _would_ keep it secret.

“So what _are_ you working on, my beautiful, wonderfully talented mate?” Rhys asked her, two weeks into her project. He rested warm hands on her waist, pressing his face into the bare skin of her neck. Thank the Cauldron Feyre had quick reflexes; she just barely managed to cover the painting in the darkness she’d received from him, blocking it completely from his view. An ironic twist of fate, that.

“You know flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere this time,” Feyre replied dryly. “You’ll find out soon enough. Patience.” 

Rhys nipped at her neck, sending very _specific_ images through their bond. “Or perhaps I can _convince_ you into giving up your little secret?”

“Scoundrel,” Feyre scoffed, even as she leaned back into his solid warmth.

His voice was a pleased rumble. “Always.” 

Needless to say she hadn’t got much more work done that day. But she also managed to keep the project from him a little longer, so she considered it a win regardless. (Though Rhys also won that round in a way, considering how much he enjoyed his convincing.)

And now… Now it was finally finished. And she could finally show him what had so occupied her time this past month. Feyre thought she should be happier about it, but she was only nervous, the feeling curdling in her stomach. For all that Rhys loved her paintings, she’d never done something like this for him before. What if the painting only made the grief worse for him? What if it became nothing more than another painful reminder?

It was too late to change course now, however. Not with Rhys already waiting by her side, staring at the cloth covered canvas in front of them. Feyre briefly considered leaving it covered up, but then Rhys put an encouraging hand on her elbow, his eyes gleaming at her knowingly. And so Feyre used her newfound courage to quickly pull the cloth away, before the temptation to run could not longer be pushed aside.

The revealed painting was met with nothing but all encompassing silence. The mating bond, normally so open between them, remained suspiciously cut off.

Feyre wondered what Rhys was thinking as he stared so intently at her latest creation. She knew what he was seeing – or hoped he was seeing. The painting depicted two utterly stunning women, standing hand-in-hand. The older and more striking of the two had her gorgeous, membranous wings spread out wide, a wild grin pulling at her lips, midnight hair spilling around her shoulders in glorious waves. Hazel eyes sparkled with mirth and love as she peered out of the painting, as if she was greeting a loved one finally coming home. By her side, her daughter looked gentler in comparison, standing perhaps half a head shorter than her mother despite being fully grown. Her own midnight hair had been meticulously braided – no doubt by her older brother – violet and pink and white flowers carefully woven in. She was meticulously dressed, but there was an undeniable hint of mischievousness in her purple-hued eyes. The hand that wasn’t intertwined with her mother’s was held out in front of her, reaching out – an invitation for the viewer to join them. The painting seemed to be backlit as well, as if the two women had just walked inside from a sunny day, giving the whole thing a bright and yet ethereal feel. Or so Feyre hoped.

Eventually, she dared to glance up at Rhys, finding an expression of pained wonder on his face. He looked infinitely sad… and yet there was a quality of peace about him as well, as if it healed something in him, to have this reminder of what he’d lost so long ago. Feyre felt her heart crack at the sight and couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to him, tangling their hands together until they almost mirrored the painting in front of them.

“I know you’re afraid you’ll forget about them one day, forget what they look like,” Feyre finally said, breaking the heavy silence. Her stomach still curdled with her nerves and she fiddled with the cloth of her dress as she looked at her mate. “I thought perhaps this might help.” 

Rhys said nothing for a long moment, though his fingers tightened around hers. He lifted his free hand to the painting, first tracing the strong curve of his mother’s wings and then trailing his thumb down the length of his sister’s braid.

“They were so beautiful,” he whispered, the bond once again opening between them until he was showering her with image after image of the family he lost.

Feyre leaned into his side. “They were. They didn’t deserve their ending”

“No, they didn’t.” The grief that came with those simple words was immense and ancient.

Feyre ached for Rhys, ached for his pain. She regretted the painting for a brief moment (had she only caused him _more_ pain?), but Rhys could not tear his eyes from it. He stared at it almost hungrily, memorizing each stroke, each color, each detail until Feyre was sure he could recreate the picture perfectly in his mind. The peace that she had sensed before seemed to settle once more, blanketing over his pain, giving him the kind of comfort he’d craved for centuries. And Feyre knew, without a doubt, that she’d done the right thing.

 _I didn’t want your last image of them to be of their broken bodies_ , she whispered in his mind as he continued to stare at her work.

Rhys swallowed roughly, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He lifted his head up to the sky first, overcome with emotion, before he finally turned his gaze to Feyre, the depth of it pinning her in place.

“You are a wonder, Feyre darling,” he told her, quietly serious. 

“I knew that already,” she said with a teasing little smile, before allowing it to fade into something gentler. She touched the edge of his jaw. “But so are you, Rhys. And they would think so too. They would proud of what you accomplished here, but most of all of you are. Of that I have no doubt.” 

Rhys turned fully to her then, leaning his forehead against hers, his eyes still shining with emotion even as he looked at their linked hands. “Thank you,” he said. 

“You’re welcome,” Feyre replied, really _meaning_ it. 

Rhys smiled at her, a small smile that reminded her not of his mother but rather of the little sister that had loved him so. Feyre smiled back at him with all the love in her, before rising to the tips of her toes and softly kissing the edge of his mouth. Her mate buried his head in her shoulder and crushed her to him, his arms steel bands around her waist. But Feyre hardly noticed as she ran soothing fingers through his hair, holding him just as tight. 

“I think we should find them a place of honor, don’t you?” Rhys said as he finally pulled away from her embrace, minutes or hours later.

“I know just the place.”

They hung the painting in the sitting room, where it could be bathed in the light of the garden beyond. It was lovely, peaceful spot that so many of their friends – their new family – passed by on their visits to the town house.

And underneath it, they later added a tiny silver placard, with only two words engraved in Rhys’ elegant script. 

_Never forgotten._


	14. The Shadow Bond (Elriel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I realize it's almost been a year, but I finally read ACOFAS and have been feeling motivated to finish writing this ;) This particular drabble was inspired by some headcanons from rosehallshadowsinger and julesherondalex on tumblr, who were talking about Azriel using his shadows to create a bond with Elain. This is my own twist on it. Fair warning, this isn't nearly as much fluff as the others as there's quite a bit of angst instead - hope you enjoy anyways!
> 
> Also, as a side note, I've posted a separate elriel one-shot as part of the series - it's a mates!AU so check it out if you have time ;) 
> 
> And, lastly, the final chapter of this should be posted soon! I already know what it will be so shouldn't take too long.

The language of shadows was complex, this Elain knew. It was why shadowsingers were so rare and so feared. Shadows were almost a living thing, their whispers hard to decipher, their powers hard to tame; and, _Cauldron_ , how powerful they could be. Azriel was the most famed shadowsinger in Prythian’s history and the only one currently known to be alive. It was no wonder, then, that he found it hard to explain the nature of his powers, the nature of his shadow-work. 

Even Elain, who knew Azriel better than anyone, didn’t quite understand it. But she didn’t have to really. All she had to do was trust it, those tendrils of darkness that followed him around like favored pets. She was fascinated by them, in fact, fascinated by how Azriel wove them in and out existence, how he used them to transport himself from place to place, ever-silent. 

It still shocked her though, the first time a soft, black tendril wrapped around her wrist. It writhed against her, shuddered in and out of life – but it didn’t hurt. Elain would have been scared of it, were it not for how she could feel Azriel in it, feel his essence, that dark, that powerful thing he hid under a stone-still exterior.

“It’ll protect you,” Azriel told her, suddenly appearing at her side, stepping out of a large shadow he called up. Elain was too used to his sudden appearances to jump, but her heart still skipped a beat in surprise. “Tell you if there is danger on the way.”

“Can’t my own powers do that? You needn’t overextend yourself for me,” Elain replied, worried as she stared at this dark thing entwined around her fingers.

Azriel placed a gentle hand around her waist, pulling her to his side with the sureness that came with years of being together. He kissed her temple briefly in greeting, as he was often wont to do. “Yes, I suppose,” he said. “But I’d feel better if my shadows were with you anyways, with the rising threat in the Steppes.”

Elain frowned. More and more Illyrian war bands were going rogue these days, forgetting what their High Lord and Lady and their Inner Circle had done for them. She knew the others were trying their best to contain the situation, but they were limited in a way the war bands weren’t. The rogues weren’t trying to contain the violence like Rhys wanted the leaders of his court to do.

“Besides,” Azriel continued, tracing distracting circles into her skin, “the shadows have a mind of their own. I doubt I could pull them back from you now.”

 _And_ , this time his voice wasn’t where it was before, instead reflected in her head, quiet and mysterious, _we can communicate through them_.

That was when she noticed another tendril wrapping loosely around her neck; likely what was passing messages back-and-forth between them. She shivered a bit of the feeling of Azriel so connected to her… it made her think a little bit of a mating bond, not that either of them knew what that was like. She grew envious, sometimes, of the bonds both her sisters had with their mates. It didn’t make her any less grateful to be with Azriel, any less eager to share her eternity with him. But to have _this_ , and with Azriel… Elain delighted at the thought.

 _You like this_ , Azriel’s voice came to her, full of wicked wonder. 

Elain looked up to meet his eyes, finding them already staring at her. She nodded, cheeks feeling slightly warm. He still had that effect on her, even after all this time spent together.

 _Well then, let me teach you how to speak back_ , he whispered in her head, running his hand up her arm, tracing the shadow that was dancing there, _it seems hardly fair that I can’t hear you_. _I do so love the sound of your voice._  

Elain’s cheeks pinked even more, red-hot, but she kept her eyes on him determinedly. “Teach me,” she commanded.

And he did, teaching her with same patient strictness that he’d used to teach Feyre. But, unlike her sister, Elain was very much a natural at the shadow-work. It was odd actually, how fast she took to it. Cassian likened it to being an Illyrian born for flight. But none of the rest of the Inner Circle could wrap their heads around her propensity for it, how she didn’t seem to mind having a tendril of darkness around her wrist or neck. She knew they started to wonder if she was a shadowsinger as well, if this was another of her gifts. But that wasn’t the case at all. The shadows that surrounded her were wholly Azriel’s. But, like Azriel, they were undeniably connected to her as well. A bond of sorts, just like she’d always craved.

She loved it, this new ability to speak to her chosen partner in life whenever she needed to, whenever she _wanted_ to. To feel him with her when things got hard, like when the visions overwhelmed her and he was too far.

 _Breathe Elain,_ he’d tell her, in that strange shadow-voice that sounded like an echo. _Breathe and work through it. I’m with you_.

He often sought her out too, for idle conversation when he was busy spying in some far-away territory or when he needed a calming influence. (Azriel’s stoic silences hid a huge well of intent, of fierce passion.)

 _The clans are getting worse and worse_ , he’d say, _it’s a struggle not to show them a piece of my mind_ , _the narrow-minded bastards_.

 _I know, my love_ , she’d reply, _but you’re far better than them._

 _Lovely Elain. Always seeing the good in all of us._  

So the shadows were a blessing really. A wonderful blessing in her immortal life.

She especially thought so some months later, when the worst happened. The tensions with the rogue war-bands had risen to the point of real concern. Rhys and Feyre had asked Azriel to spy from a distance, to find out how to take them down with the least amount of bloodshed.

Azriel was, of course, ready to do his duty. But Elain… Elain was worried; her visions had been especially vague the past month, as if the entire future was unsure. She hated it, being unable to help him foresee any danger. It made him similarly concerned, so much so that he insisted she keep Truth-Teller with her. He had many blades, he assured her, but this one would do best to protect her, should she need it. 

Elain held it close to her as he flew away, disappearing over the horizon.

 _Be careful,_ she’d called to him, the tendril around her wrist snaking up to her neck, a comforting blanket over her shoulders.

 _Always_ , came the reply, his voice soothing in its calmness.

She tried to relax after that, tried to focus on the big garden she’d been cultivating over the years in the back of the house she and Azriel shared. She grew a multitude of flowers there, and all sorts of herbs that could be used for medicines and tonics, even for cooking. She sold them in a small store she’d been running for the past decade. Quiet work, perhaps, but fulfilling.

But nothing could take her mind off Azriel, off his mission. She tried to see the possible outcomes, to use her gift, but nothing clear was coming through. She thought of checking in through the shadow-bond but didn’t want to risk distracting him.

So she waited. And waited. And _waited_.

And then, suddenly, the tendril of shadow that lay twisted around her arm grew, became a swirling mass around her, infused with Azriel’s power, calling to her. The shadows’ murmurings were soft even in their panic, and indecipherable to all but her and Azriel. 

 _Lady of fortune_ , they called, whispered in a thousand different voices, _the master is in danger, the master is in danger._

As if those words unlocked something in her, a vision passed before her eyes, lightening-fast. But it was enough to know what was going to happen any second.

Azriel was going be captured by some of the rogue Illyrians. That future was set in stone. Nothing was going to change that.

Elain knew what she had to. She spared herself all of two minutes to pull on some tough leather pants and a loose tunic, sheathing Truth-Teller in a belt around her waist. The shadows followed her, so she gathered them close, encouraged them to lay in wait.

 _I’m going to get him back,_ she told them, using her shadow-bond with Azriel to keep control of them. _But I need a little help._

She ran to her sister’s river house, barged in to find Feyre already waiting, Rhys and Cassian by her side, all of them decked in their Illyrian armor. They were clearly expecting complications, so she wasted no time.

“Azriel’s been captured,” she said. “We have to go get him. Now.”

To their credit, they believed her immediately, anger written on their faces as they gathered the rest of the weaponry, readied themselves to winnow to the camp Azriel had been spying on. Elain soon realized they fully expected her to stay behind. She supposed she couldn’t blame them for it – she hadn’t joined them in any sort of battle since the war. 

But this was _Azriel_. _Her_ Azriel. The shadows hidden in her skin flared slightly, feeding on her anger. She forced them down with her tenuous control.

“I’m coming with you,” Elain said, staring her sister and brothers-in-law in the eye.

Feyre hesitated. “I don’t know, Elain, you’re not as trained as the rest of us. Azriel would never forgive us if you got injured.”

Elain bared her teeth – a sight so rare that everyone stilled. She gripped Truth-Teller where it was strapped to her hip, the shadow on her wrist undulating with her distress. “He might not be my Cauldron-given mate, but he is _mine_. I’m coming, you can’t stop me.”

There wasn’t much any of them could say to that, so Feyre simply took Elain’s hand and winnowed them out, Rhys following suit with Cassian.

The carnage the others wreaked when they arrived at the camp was indescribable, but Elain didn’t care about that. She had her own role here. So, instead, she gathered the shadows tight to her, coaxed them into guiding her until they pointed her to a hidden tent at the edge of camp.

 _The master_ , they said, _the master. He waits for us._

Elain _ran_.

And when she finally found Azriel, the sight of him made her see red. It was a fury unlike anything she had ever felt, possessive and purely _fae_. Because they had him strapped up to a post like an animal for slaughter, his wings – beautiful, _delicate_ things – pinned down with Cauldron-damned nails. _Four_ of them. His armor had been stripped from him, leaving him in only his undershorts, not a Siphon in sight.

(And he was surrounded by young Illyrian females, a part of her noted. They were strapped to similar posts in the tent, tired and obviously malnourished, barely blinking at the sight of Elain barging in, wielding her wicked blade.)

The sole Illyrian guard smirked at her, readying his own weapons, taunting her as he stepped on one of Azriel’s wings to get to her.

Elain let out a scream – no, a _growl_ – as she charged, Azriel’s shadows around her writhing with their anger, their fury. Logically, she knew she had little chance against a fully-grown Illyrian male. Elain was no warrior, wasn’t built for it, abhorred violence even… but she would be _damned_ if she let this stand. So she ran forwards anyways, looking for whatever advantage she could use.

And then, as if sensing her thoughts, a long shadow appeared in front of her and she slipped into without hesitation. The next thing she knew, she appeared in front of the Illyrian, not even pausing long enough to see his shocked expression before she plunged Truth-Teller deep into his bare throat. He went down with a gurgle, his lifeblood flowing out of him.

Elain barely paid attention, running to where Azriel was still pinned, falling to her knees beside him.

“Azriel?” she asked, voice trembling, hands hovering over him, unsure where she could touch him without hurting him. Mother above, she could cry. How could they _do_ this to him? To this wonderful, selfless male? To _Azriel_?

(If she didn’t know the entire war-band was already dead or soon to be, Elain would have taken Truth-Teller and run them through. The sheer violence of these thoughts surprised even her.)

 _Azriel_ , she called again, this time through the shadow-bond. She watched as black tendrils rose on his skin, protecting him even as they conveyed her messaged. _Azriel, please._

“Elain,” he groaned finally, cracking his eyes open, thank the Mother. “You’re here.” He gave her a small smile, even through his pain.

“Of course I am,” she whispered back. _There’s nowhere else I’d be_.

 _Lovely Elain_ , Azriel sent back, half-delirious.

“I have to… I have to get you free. I’m so sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

Cauldron, Elain didn’t want to do this to him, didn’t want to cause him more pain. But she had to. So, she gathered whatever courage she had left, and reached for the first nail. She pulled it out with all her might, hating herself for the way Azriel bit off a pained groaned. She whispered a thousand apologies under her breath, saying sorry over and over as she continued to the next one. And the next. By the last nail, she was fully crying, body shaking with it.

 _I can’t do this,_ she thought. _I can’t._

But then the shadows buffeted her, comforting her with their innate sense of Azriel. He was here with her. Even in his suffering, he was here.

So Elain took hold of the last, blasted nail and pulled it free. 

She collapsed after, choking on a sob, but managed to find it in her to break the chains around Azriel’s hands, his shadows helping her along, whispering encouragements to her all the while. When he was finally, blessedly free, Azriel reached out to her, cupping a hand over her tear-stained cheek.

He seemed more lucid now, looking at her with clear, hazel eyes. Mother, but she loved those eyes, loved _him_ , so much. She put her hand over his, bringing it down a little so she could press a soft kiss to his bruised wrist. 

 _Thank you,_ he told her through his shadows – _their_ shadows. _Thank you_. 

And then he was forcing himself to sit up. Elain immediately reached out to help, heaving him up until he was leaning his torso back against the pole, slightly winded. Elain pulled away, ready to call for help, when his hand on her wrist stopped her, tugged her back into him despite the bruises littering his skin.

She made a sound of protest, but then Azriel’s voice sounded through her head, shadows wreathing them both until they were half-hidden underneath them.

_Don’t go yet. I want you close. Please._

Elain gave in quickly, allowing him to cradle her against him, hands running over her again and again, as if to reassure himself that she was really there with him. She buried her wet face in his neck, breathing him in, her breath still hitching, tears still flowing. 

Azriel’s shadows were comfort around them, their soft whispering a much-wanted familiarity.

“I’m sorry that you had to do that,” Azriel said, voice absolutely _wrecked_. “I could have escaped, but they took my Siphons and put some their runaway females in here so if I tried to destroy their warriors, I’d destroy them too. And by that time I was too weak to do anything else but send my shadows to you.” 

Elain hated that they had done this to him, preyed on his good nature so that he wouldn’t escape. It was clever of them in the cruelest kind of way, to take his Siphons so he couldn’t control the sheer breadth of his killing power. To put innocents in his way so he wouldn’t attack.

“Bastards,” she hissed, surprising them both. But she pressed a kiss to Azriel’s throat, felt him tremble beneath her as he was overcome with emotion. “And you have nothing to be sorry about. _They_ took you from me. _You_ are not at fault here.”

He wrapped himself tighter around her, his shadows following, until they were both fully ensconced in their shimmering darkness. Their murmurings had quieted by now, leaving just Azriel and Elain and the shadow-bond linking them together. 

 _The females?_ he asked her, suddenly worried. 

 _They’re fine. Last I saw, Cassian had barged in; I’m sure he’s taking care of them_.

They lapsed into silence, Elain encouraging one of the shadowy tendrils to cover Azriel’s open wounds, to stem the blood still flowing from them until he was willing to be tended to by the rest of their family.

 _I’m sure the others are getting worried by now_ , she ventured after a long while. 

 _Let them. Just for a moment longer_. 

For all her better judgment, Elain did just that, curling herself around Azriel protectively. It soothed her wild instincts; the animal in her that wouldn’t rest until the other half of her was safe. She was sure it did the same for him, this ancient warrior of hers. The shadow-bond between them was awash with feelings of comfort, of reassurance.

And when the shadows finally lifted – following Azriel’s command – the others found them like that, wrapped together, surrounded by four bloody nails and the last vestiges of darkness.

But Azriel didn’t let go of Elain even as they were winnowed back to Velaris. And Elain continued to cling to him when the healer came to their home. All the while, they spoke to one another. But no one else heard a word they said.

No, they saved their words for their bond. For each other. As it should be.


End file.
